


The Baker High Irregulars

by MissAngstandporn (givemeangstandporn_heyatleastImhonest), Mr_Dr_Professor_PhD



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: "friends", Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst, BAMF John, Baker High School, Bored Sherlock, Bullet wound, Bullying, DEAL WITH IT, Dark Sherlock, Don't do it, Drama, Drug Use, Eye Sex, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Greaser AU, Greaser Sherlock, Greaserlock, High School AU, Homosexual Romance, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, I do what I want, Jealous John, John Hates bullies, John is sad, John's dad is a terrible person, Johnny has a secret, LSD, M/M, Moriarity is violent, Moriarty wants Sherlock, Motorcycle wreck, Motorcycles, Murder, Mycroft's Meddling, Nerd John, Nerd Sherlock, Nosy Sherlock, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Possessive Sherlock, Purple Shirt of Sex, Scars, Sherlock has a gang, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock is a poop, Sherlock is still a poop, Sherlocks a bully, Slow Burn, Snuggling, Swearing, Teenlock, Torture, Trigger Warning- Abuse, WARNING: Racial slur, annoying phone calls, baker street irregulars - Freeform, bugger tea!, casefic, cigarette burns, gay is okay, is crazy illegal, motorcycle bullshit, not at all accurate to the times, stealing from a hospital
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2108865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemeangstandporn_heyatleastImhonest/pseuds/MissAngstandporn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Dr_Professor_PhD/pseuds/Mr_Dr_Professor_PhD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“You are fascinating Johnny Boy. You seem to be the average Joe don’t you? Seem to be the simple boy with the good grades and the lily white reputation…” He leaned forward, so that he was pressed into John’s personal space, looking darkly into those baby-blues. “But you aren’t are you? You. Are so. Much. More.”</em><br/>Sherlock Holmes is the leader of a gang of greasers at Baker High. He is also incredibly bored. That changes when the new kid gets in his way, and does something very unexpected. Sherlock is interested, and tackles the new mystery - who is John Watson?</p><p>So the prodigal returns. Didja miss me? No?? Well, TS cause I'm back anyway!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everyone hates Anderson

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo, this first chapter is total crap, but I wanted to post it before I chickened out. I'll come back and edit it I promise! THis work is inspired by the lovely KissMyAssButt67 as well as multiple other Greaser Sherlock fics I've read. 
> 
> Just to clear this up, The setting is America, but the Holmes' and the Watsons' are all British, having moved to America. The language and writing is a horrible bastard child of British and US terminology and if someone would please for the love of God tell me how to fix it I would really appreciate it. 
> 
> Limited research, not Britpickd, not Beta'd, oh god someone kill me now. Oh and I own nothing :)
> 
> *goes and hides to write more terrible, terrible fanfiction*

The car park of Baker High was echoing with the sound of students shouting and car and motorcycle engines roaring. Kids poured out of the buses and assaulted the front of the school in a great wave of nerds, bulls, cubes, good girls, bad girls and greasers. The kids who were lucky enough to have cars idled by them talking to friends and basking in the envious glances cast their way. They were staying outside as long as was possible, despite the cool, early Spring chill in the air. The largest group lingering in the lot was a mob of greasers hanging around a couple of hot-rods. Their leather jackets proclaimed them all to be members of the Baker High Irregulars, the toughest gang in the school. It was made up of "Andy" Anderson, a slime they only kept around because he was dating Sally Donovan, a tough girl who had survived being one of the only black kids in the school by being especially vicious, a quality that endeared her to the irregulars. Then there was Mike, Clara, Jimmy Moriarty, and Bill Wiggins- a tenth year the group had adopted as a kind of apprentice. The second-in-command of the group, Greg Lestrade, sat in the back of his black Chevy flip-top, smoking a cigarette while lazily running his fingers over the flame detailing on the side of the car. 

"When's he gonna get here?!" whined Andy, running a comb through his over-greased hair for the thousandth time. Everyone rolled there eyes.  
“He'll get here when he gets here, Andy-boy!" Jimmy spat, flicking his cigarette at the group idiot.  
Greg grinned, ignoring Andy's angry curse. "I'll be surprised if he shows at all. Apparently he went on a hell of a bender over the weekend, must have a real hangover."  
Mike Stamford shook his head. "He's gonna get himself killed if he keeps going like this. I mean, I'm all for good booze and Fat City, but the coke...."  
"Oh ice it Mikey, Sherlock knows what he's doin'!" Clara spoke of their leader reverently, accepting everything he said and did as law.  
"Well he better hurry up, the bell for homeroom rang ages ago, and I certainly don't need another detention-"  
"SHUT THE HELL UP ANDY!" Several people shouted at him. No one liked Anderson, he always spoke in a nasal, whining tone, and acted like a square little ankle-biter. Donovan was the only one who wasn't glaring at him, but she didn't stick up for him either. She was just happy Sherlock had let him into the group, after the first time Andy had challenged him, she was certain that the Boss would kill him, as well as kick him out of the gang. She shivered, and lit a cigarette - she didn't like the gang-leader. He was a Brit, and she didn't trust foreigners, and Sherlock gave her the creeps. He was too cold, too smart, and he didn't care about violence. He didn't care about anything or anyone either. She was distracted by Anderson's shouting at Bill (Bill the only one smaller than him- so he was the only one he could pick on) "Drop Dead TWICE you little nosebleed!"  
Bill simply rose an eyebrow - "What, and look like you?"

Andy was about to respond when he was interrupted by the roar of an engine, as a sleek black motorcycle burned rubber into the car park. It growled smoothly into the space next to Greg's car as the Irregulars greeted it's rider with hoots and hollers.  
"Hep entrance, Sherlock!"  
"Where the hell've ya been?!"  
"Can I kill Anderson Boss? Just a little bit?!"  
"Bout damn time you got here!"  
The leader of the gang swung one long leg over the bike as he cut the engine. He turned to face his loyal gang, who were elbowing each other to light the cigarette dangling between his grinning, cupids-bow lips. Jimmy won the battle, and leaned in conspiratorially as Sherlock cupped his lighter in his hands. "I'm serious Boss, Andy is such a pain in the ass! He would not stop whining while we waited for you. Pleeease, Big Daddy's had enough now! At least let me give 'im a good pounding." Sherlock grinned a wolfs grin as Jimmy peered coyly at him through his eyelashes. Only Jim would use violence as a way to flirt. Blowing out a stream of smoke he asked in a deep, british tone. “You willing to deal with Donovan? Her antics last time bored me to tears.” Jimmy nodded eagerly. "Alright then," he turned away with a dark chuckle "have at him." The others followed him as he swaggered towards the school, ignoring Andy's shrieks and Donovan's shouts as Jimmy dragged her boyfriend behind the sports equipment shed. Sherlock Holmes sighed, rubbing his temple with long, thin fingers - today was going to be very dull indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock sat at the corner table of the Cantine, waiting for the rest of the gang to show up. He sighed for the hundredth time that day. Why was everything such a drag?! The classes were stupid, the people were stupid, Sherlock himself felt as though he were growing more stupid, simply by being here.  
This American school thing had been interesting at first - understanding the slang, tackling school social politics, all of it had been a challenge. A very, very easy one. He had risen through the societal ranks in less than a month. He had so quickly tired of the phrase "Oooh your _English_ aren't you, I can tell by your accent!" He was too smart to endure the Bulls, to violent to fit in with the nerds, and far to interesting to be a mere cube. He had alienated people quickly with his deductions and criticism, and so easily formed his gang out of the people he didn't drive away. He was amused by the irregulars- they were a rag-tag group who were fiercely (childishly) loyal, and would fight to the death to look out for him. He didn't even need to fight any more. The first couple of months he was in the Principals office almost daily for beating some nosebleed who had called him a square for getting good grades, or had the guts - more likely the stupidity - to jump him. Mummy had been beside herself, realizing this would be a repeat of every other school Sherlock had attended, and Mycroft had actually threatened him. "Make Mummy cry one more time little brother and you'll have your face in the dirt!" That had surprised him. Mycroft was usually far too lazy to be violent, and he was much too fat to pose any real danger to his light and strong brother - but he clearly had meant his threat. So now he let the Irregulars fight his battles for him, tedious though it was. Occasionally he participated in the taunting of some poor cube who got in his way - his cruel, bored deductions were enough to reduce most of the students to tears. He glanced up as Sally and Andy approached the table, carrying their lunches. Anderson looked like he'd hit by a train but- glancing back and forth between them, Sherlock saw things - Sally's rumpled skirt, hair re-pinned into place, freshly applied lip-stick, Andersons hair flecked red with paint, a grey smudge of pencil lead on his nose, and that asinine look of self-satisfaction...  
"Shagging in the Art supply closet again." He stated simply, picking at his lunch with distaste. Of course Andy began to bluster "WE weren't, we did NOT-"  
" _Yes_ . You did." Sherlock turned away from the red faces to talk to Greg, who had just sat down. "Anything new today?"  
Greg ran a hand through his prematurely grey streaked hair - _All grey by thirty_ Sherlock judged. - "Well, there are couple of new cubes -" "I Know." Said Sherlock 

"A Brother and a sister-"

"I know."

"Named Watson-"

"I know"

"Just moved into town-"

"I know."

"From England like you-"

"I know."

THEN DAMN IT SHERLOCK!! If you _Know_ everything why'd you ask me?!" Greg crossed his arms and huffed through his nose angrily.

"I have some questions."

Greg rolled his eyes."Of course you do."  
Sherlock ignored him and continued. "I've seen the girl - Harriet Watson, 12th year, bit too fond of alcohol, homosexual - oh _don't_ stare open mouthed like that it's obvious!- Friendly, out going, would have some fun with Clara - you should introduce them - hates her parents, has no ambition, is extremely protective of her _little brother_. Sherlock slowed and emphasized the last four syllables. "I haven't seen him. What's he like?  
Greg shrugged, still glassy eyed from Sherlock's sudden revelations. Homosexual? Harriet Watson...? He supposed he could see it. He didn't mind it - after all Clara had been open with him from the start as to her tastes. But he was disappointed, Harriet was sassy little fuzzy duck, who hadn't been afraid of the Greasers' big leather jacket and bad reputation. He had thought that maybe....  
"LESTRADE!"

Greg startled- "What?What? What d'ya say Sherlock?!"

" _Tell me about the brother_ "

"Oh, yeah, sorry." Greg shrugged uninterested. "Seems a bit of a square, probably a Jock or a Bull - said he played that Rugby game at his old school. Popular with girls, but they just fall over themselves for that dumb English accent -" he glanced suddenly up at Sherlock - "S-sorry Sherlock, just jealous I guess. The girls don't don't even care what you Brit's are sayin' so long as you keep talking." Sherlock rolled his eyes and flicked his thin fingers in annoyance "Keep going, more data."

"Kay, so he seems smart, nice guy, managed to draw Molly Hooper out of her shell, and you know how hard that is. It's interesting, he didn't dig Sebastian and his lot - y'know the squeaky clean squares. He dresses like them - button up shirts, pressed slacks, hair parted on the side - but he really isn't like them. He picked one with Seb in English for going at Molly about a mistake she made while reading. Seems a pretty keen guy. Somethin' up with his leg... but whatever. Not Our kinda guy huh Sherlock?"

"What's wrong?"

Greag blinked - "What?"

"What's wrong with his leg?" 

Oh, I dunno. He just limps a bit when no one's lookin."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, pulling on his leather jacket. He had Chemistry with John Watson next period - he'd snuck a look at his schedule in the office earlier. He'd have to get there early to make sure John Watson sat next to him. It was a full class, and everyone was so terrified of Sherlock he was sure he could get his way.  
He grinned as he dumped his lunch on Lestrade's tray, ignoring his angry "Hey!".

Finally something interesting. Perhaps this day wouldn't be so dull after all.


	2. Fascinating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! people like, ACTUALLY READ THIS BAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHA! I'm okay now. Just can't stop grinning from ear to ear. As of right now I have no real schedule for updates, I just knew what I wanted to do so I went ahead and wrote. I am terrible at maintaining due dates, so I figure it's better if I just go with the flow. Thankyou sooo much to anybody who actually took the time to read my abysmal writing, and anyone who may or may not make it to the second chapter!

Sherlock sat in the back of the Chemistry classroom, waiting. He had an easy time keeping the seat next to him empty. People naturally avoided him, and gave him an even wider berth after the Carl Powers incident. That hadn't been Sherlock of course- it had all been Jimmy. He had beaten the boy into unconsciousness before Sherlock finally pulled him away, and even then Jim had fought like a madman to get at Carl's limp body. Sherlock was the only thing that had prevented Jim from killing Carl that day- but of course people didn't know that. Sherlock had been seen walking away from the pool where Carl would later be found, and though nothing had ever been proved, there were whispers... Sherlock didn't care what people thought about him, people were stupid and so boring. Let the little jerks think what they liked, their whispers only added to his dangerous reputation.  


Suddenly Sherlock straightened in his seat. The new Watson boy had walked into the room, accompanied by a mob of girls - at least two of which were not even in this class. Greg did have a point about the accent, Sherlock thought, but of course, John Watson was attractive in a blue-eyed, blond-haired, square sort of way. The fan club paused in the doorway talking and giggling. Sherlock took advantage of their halt to observe John Watson from a distance. Just as Lestrade had said, button down shirt, pressed slacks, hair parted just so – square as anything, a real nerd. But Sherlock saw other things, things Greg Lestrade was simply too stupid to notice. The thrice-hemmed pants, the scuffed shoes, the tense way he held his leg - interesting. The nervous way John ran his fingers through his perfect golden hair, the wrinkles around his eyes as he smiled, the way he rubbed his neck as he blushed up to his forehead at something one of the girls said - interesting and... Adorable. Sherlock blinked and shook his head, _where had that come from?_ He looked again at the blond boy as he waved to the girls scurrying to class and turned to speak to the teacher. Kind, respectful, honest, smart, hardworking, innocent, _adorable_. Sherlock grinned, he rarely found anyone attractive. There had been a few girls, and of course Jim's flirtations were always amusing; but John... John Watson was attractive and very interesting. In that instant it was decided. There was nothing for it, Sherlock would have to have him. He would have John Watson, get him out of his system and move on as quickly as possible. He couldn't afford emotional distraction; it clouded his senses and clogged his deductive processes. But there was no point ignoring physical attraction, better to just accept it, enjoy it, and drop it. He grinned his wolfs grin as John walked toward him. John was rather late to class and the only open seat was the one next to Sherlock, just as he had planned.

Sherlock quickly analyzed how he would look as John approached him. The game was on now, he knew he wanted John Watson, so the challenge was to make John Watson want him. He was fairly sure from his observation, that this would not be difficult. He leaned back in his chair, propping one Chuck up on the black table top. His long legs, cased in the blue jeans all the adults hated so much, stretched out. His white t-shirt stretched across a defined chest and flat toned stomach. Sherlock had no illusions about himself, he knew he was thin ( _gangly_ , Mycroft called him) but he made up for it in definition, and sheer presence. He saw a flicker in those baby blue eyes, saw the way Johns breath hitched almost inaudibly. He smirked, so he had been right. John Watson liked boys. He may not know he liked them, his responses seemed absolutely involuntary, but he was attracted to Sherlock all the same. Sherlock wondered idly what element was present in the Watson family, that had produced not one but two such taboo, homosexual children. 

In a calculated move, he flexed his thin, muscular shoulders in the leather jacket, folded his hands behind his head, and cocked his head at an angle, eyeing John darkly. He knew he must to look dangerous to John Watson. Dangerous and desirable. Danger would be what drew John in, and what kept him until Sherlock was through. John hunched his shoulders and shuffled toward his seat, another delicious blush creeping up his neck as he avoided Sherlock's piercing cold gaze. _So_ , he thought, _he’s fighting it._ The wolfs grin spread across his face. _More fun for me_...

John sat down next to him quickly, setting his Chem book and notebook neatly on the center of the desk in front of him. He sat straight backed, staring at the board up front , seeming totally engrossed in the blank, dusty expanse. “You’d better put your peepers on, Johnny boy. If you had you’d know there was nothing up there to stare at.” John seemed to jump a foot in the air as Sherlock spoke, then, hearing his accent, he turned to him grinning.  


“I’d heard there was another Brit in the school, but I was beginning to think it was a myth! Sherlock Holmes yeah? John Watson.” He held out a hand as he introduced himself. Raising his thin eyebrows, Sherlock took the hand, glad of the chance to deduce more about his soon-to-be lover. Calloused, _knows hard work, and probably helps carry heavy things for his job_. Fresh blister on the thumb _already has a new job, possibly two. Very hardworking indeed_ – he glanced up at John again, a mere flicker – _needs the money, needs to get out of the house more. Only one place in town with a job open needing heavy lifting. Johnsons flour Mill, must be a bagger. For the other, something on the weekends, only room in his schedule would be mornings – delivering papers, then._ Firm grip, _is not afraid of me despite the shy manner._ Bruised knuckles _he’s recently been in a fight._ No visible bruises, _he won_ … “Fascinating.” Sherlock said aloud. John looked surprised and confused “S- sorry? What’s fascinating?” He seemed to suddenly realize he was still holding Sherlock’s hand and withdrew it quickly.  
“You are, John Watson.”  
“How do you know my name?”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes “Oh really, Johnny Boy, everyone knows your name. You’re the new kid; you’ll be feeding the rumor mills for weeks to come.” _Especially when you’re seen hanging around with me._ John nodded drawing his brows together. Sherlock waved his hand airily, “But that’s beside the point.” He dragged his foot off the table and instead leaned an elbow in its place so he could look fully at the boy beside him. “You are fascinating Johnny Boy. You seem to be the average Joe don’t you? Seem to be the simple boy with the good grades and the lily white reputation…” He leaned forward, so that he was pressed into John’s personal space, looking darkly into those baby-blues. “But you aren’t are you? You. Are so. Much. More.”  


John was blushing furiously, his pupils dilated and pulse elevated, overwhelmed by Sherlock’s sudden closeness. Excellent. Sherlock smirked and leaned back, running his hand through the tangle of curls at his forehead. John’s eyes followed his hand for a moment, then snapped his head forward, looking angry – not with Sherlock, but with himself.  


“I don’t know what you mean.” He said it stiffly, still not looking at Sherlock.  
“Well,” said Sherlock. “You’re not just some average nerd. You already have a job at Johnsons Mill – doing heavy lifting no less, probably delivering papers on the weekend, and you’ve gotten in at least one fight since you moved here – not something people would expect from you, Johnny Boy, but they only see what you want them to see. The good little cube who’s never out late on a Saturday night.” John turned to stare at him. “How could you possibly know all that?! And about my glasses from earlier?!” Sherlock sighed, this was it, the moment when he freaked Johnny boy out, drove him a way, and had to reel him back in. He reeled off his previous deductions, watching John’s slowly dropping jaw with amusement. “As for the glasses,” he said in a bored voice, “you have the tell-tale mark on your nose and you squint slightly when you look at the front chalk board.” He crossed his arms casually, bracing himself for the fearful glance, the affronted words, and the threatened sneer. “That was…” here it comes. “Amazing! Bloody amazing!” Do you always see things like that?!” Sherlock stared at John’s lop-sided grin. “Well, yeah.” _Brilliant Holmes, excellent statement, you really are a genius_.

John didn’t seem to notice the banality of Sherlock’s response. “Absolutely amazing…” Sherlock stared at him. “What?” asked John.  
“People don’t usually say that…”  
“What do they say?”  
“Get bent.”  
John burst out laughing, commenting on his love of American slang. And Sherlock actually chuckled along with him, admiring the fire in the baby blues that sparked as john laughed.

“ALRIGHT CUT THE GAS, ALL OF YOU!” the teacher shouted, and everyone hushed, listening as the lesson began. John turned forward quickly and flipped open a notebook, the good little student at the ready. But Sherlock leaned back in his chair, watching John. _“Amazing! Bloody Amazing!”_ Fascinating boy. _“Amazing! Bloody Amazing!”_ Oh, Sherlock would have to be careful with this one. If he didn’t watch out, he’d be real gone over John Watson in a matter of days.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock walked with John to his locker after class, slinging his bag of his shoulder, despite John’s many protests. Several people looked like they wanted to talk to the new kid, but were effectively deterred by Sherlock’s looming presence. It also helped that Sherlock glared daggers at anyone who so much as looked at his Johnny Boy. _Oh, now he was his Johnny Boy! Watch out Sherlock, this one’s dangerous_. Sherlock could already tell that he was too interested, too fast, for this to be the once and done deal he had planned it to be. He would drop John eventually, Love was a piece of grit in his fine instrument he would absolutely not allow; but he had a feeling it would take him a long time to drop John Watson. And he’d enjoy every minute.  


A couple members of his gang joined them as they walked down the hall, and after a brief hesitation from John they were all introduced and talking happily. “Hey!” Andy called from the back of the group “There’s Ugly Mary!” Ugly Mary Morstan was a girl who had yet to bloom into a young woman. She was dumpy, with frizzy hair, and eternally failing experiments with makeup. She flinched as Anderson shouted, and tried to get away down the hall, but the Irregulars gave chase, shouting catcalls and rude comments. Sherlock strolled casually after them, looking totally uninterested. John tugged sharply on his jacket. He looked down into stormy blue eyes, surprised at the change in John’s face. “Aren’t you going to say something?!” he hissed, glaring after the gang. Sherlock shrugged in assent and swaggered forward, through the group to where they had Mary pinned against the side door. The group hushed as Sherlock said “Mary,” She looked up at him with tear filled eyes, disgusting. “ While that color palette may work for Theda Bara, I’m afraid it makes you look rather like a nauseous cow. Do go wash it off darling, there’s a dear.”

Mary finally broke down sobbing and didn’t bother to hide it as she bent to gather the books she had dropped. Sherlock felt a strong hand on his shoulder, and suddenly John spun him around – _very strong indeed, rather nice, that_ , Sherlock thought – _and punched him in the face_.  
Sherlock was thrown back against the lockers by the force of punch and stumbled, falling to the ground. Everything in the hallway froze. All eyes followed John as he gathered Mary’s books and calmly held the door open for her to run outside. Blue eyes were black with rage as he looked down at Sherlock. “You absolute _wanker_.” He hissed at him, then turned on his heel and followed Mary out the door. 

“Alright everybody SHOWS OVER!” Lestrade shouted, and all the students in the hallway instantly returned to their routines, deliberately not looking at where Lestrade was helping Sherlock stand up. “Do we get him Boss?” asked Wiggins, pulling out a flick knife from his jacket pocket. Sherlock shook his head absently, watching through the window as John and Harriet helped Mary into their old tank of a car and drive away. “This one’s mine, Wig.” He muttered. He traced a hand over his face, feeling a good shiner already developing. John Watson had punched him, _him, Sherlock Holmes_. The toughest, scariest, most dangerous boy in the school had been thrown flat on his ass by a five foot something nerd.  
 _Holy Hell_ , Sherlock thought,  
 _I’m in love_.  


~~~~~~~~~~  


John was fuming as they sat in the car outside the Route 221 diner. Harry sat with Mary in the back, fixing her makeup. “You see?” Harry was saying “You just need a lighter touch, the colors you chose were pretty, but they’re a bit too strong for a sweet young thing like you.” Mary giggled, smiling. “Harry…” John said in a warning tone. He did not need his sister hitting on a girl who clearly had no experience with relationships of any kind. The poor thing would probably faint if she realized Harriet Watson was hitting on her. “We’re fine Johnny, just doing the finishing touches.” She returned his glare, knowing full well what he was implying. “There, all done!” They clambered out of the car and John turned to face the girls. “Oh…wow.” John was astounded. Mary Morstan looked completely different. The heavy makeup was wiped away to expose sweet full lips, a button nose, and lovely doe eyes. Harry had pinned her hair back to accentuate the heart shape of her face. “Gee Whiz Harriet!” Mary cried, staring at her reflection in the diner window “You’re an absolute queen!” Harry looked amused. “Um, thanks, but I’m no Mary.”  


“Wha..?” Mary looked confused for a moment, and then her brow cleared “Oh! Is she the Queen of England right now?!”  


“God bless her and long may she reign!” Said John pompously, making the girls laugh. Grabbing Mary’s hand (and ignoring her blush) he lead the girls into the diner. “Come on your Majesty; let a commoner buy you a milkshake.”  


As they all laughed, John’s thoughts flickered back to Sherlock. He had seemed so cool, thin and tall, with his mad deductions, smelling of leather and cigarette smoke. Too bad he was a right bastard. He had felt _those feelings_ in the pit of his stomach. The odd fluttering, hungry feeling, as the greaser with the deep, shivery voice had towered over him he had almost felt... But no. Those feelings were wrong, they probably weren't even real. Sherlock probably made everybody feel that way. And after seeing the way he had treated Mary, he was certain he would _never_ have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... Sherlock's a poop. Sorreeeee. 
> 
> The queen of England during the 1950's was the same one we have today - she's ruled for a long frickin time! Just for fun her full name is Victoria Mary Augusta Louise Olga Pauline Claudine Agnes May. 
> 
> Theda Bara was an actress from the era of silent pictures, known for her heavy makeup, which showed up well on black and white film 
> 
>  
> 
> Well I think that's all, if anyone sees a screw up please let me know, Ciao Babe!


	3. Dangerous in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little rough stuff and eye sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyooo! Another chapter done: BOOM. I am so proud of myself for not dropping this like a hot potato. This chapter is dedicated to my darling girl TheNippySoldier. Your wheezes give me smiles.
> 
> Couple warnings: Child abuse (only briefly and not too graphic) and an extremely nasty racial slur that I do not condone in any way, shape, or form. And neither does Sherlock for that matter ;)
> 
> Not beta'd (though I'll have one soon!) Not britpicked, and I own nothing

After they dropped Mary off, John floored it all the way to their house on the cheaper side of town. There was tense silence in the car, the two siblings occasionally glancing at the clock and then at each other. They both knew what would happen if John and Harry got home late for dinner. Harry, who was usually a terrible back seat driver, said nothing as John took several rough detours, throwing the car around curves and driving twice the legal speed limit. She merely gripped the seat until her knuckles turned white and chewed the inside of her cheek. As they pulled into the drive, John gave her a tight smile of thanks, he knew how hard it was for Harry to keep quiet. Almost sprinting to the house, they got in the door at three minutes to six. Just in the nick of time.

"And where the hell ‘ave you been?" asked their father, slurring his words. He was slumped in the leather chair, the only piece of furniture they had brought from England. John could tell by the skew of his tie, and the way his father sprawled in the chair that tonight would be a rough one. He may not have mad deductive powers like that Sherlock Holmes, but he knew how to read the signs. As he glanced at her, his mother subtly held up three fingers behind her husbands back. This was their code. One finger meant all was well, two meant he's getting started. Three meant he's had three or more and four meant you ran for cover. They had no meaning yet for five, though John feared they someday would. 

"John took Mary Morstan out for shakes. I chaperoned." Harry blurted quickly, trying to sound confident and casual. "So,” his father said, sounding pleased "you finally got yourself a bird! Bout time, I was beginning to think you were a poofter." John shifted uncomfortably. "It’s only one date Da, we aren't going steady or anything." 

His father snorted. “Well you're smarter than I thought! When I was your age I had a different girl on my arm every time I went out. Take my advice boy-o, don't get tied down, don't you ever let ‘em tie you down." his father sent a vicious glare towards his wife, who stood dutifully in the kitchen by the stove, watching the soup boil. "Seem so sweet, seem so lovin'." his father muttered "When all they want is ta tie you down. Take your life, take your money, turn you to a life of ‘when you comin home, where were you last night, when ya gonna find some work?’ its enough ta drive you to drink!" John could see his father ramping up, he gave Harry a subtle nod and pushed her towards the kitchen. Harry and he had a time tested battle plan. John stayed and dealt with his father, while Harry waited with their mother in kitchen, ready to scramble out the side door should the problem go from three to four fingers. His dad was not only violent when he got going, he was vicious. And he always went for the women first. His father took another swig straight from a bottle of whiskey, not noticing his children’s’ shift in placing. Suddenly, his father leapt up with a shriek and threw the bottle towards where Harry and Mrs. Watson were standing. Instead of hitting it’s intended target, it smashed into a million pieces on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. Harry had already placed her hand on her mother’s elbow, so she easily dragged her away, pulling her to the side door and running with her to the car. Hamish Watson roared angrily watching the retreating car with glassy, animal's eyes. Then, with a bellow, he turned and charged at John, drawing his fist back to land a blow. John tensed and widened his stance into a defensive posture he had used often in Rugby. His father’s fist came swinging down. _This is gonna hurt._

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day Sherlock and his gang were idling in the school parking lot, smoking and admiring the new detailing on Sherlock’s bike which declared it to be “The Hell Hound”. Anderson was sulking next to Donovan at the edge of the group. Not only was he covered in black and yellow bruises from Moriarty’s beating, he also had a fresh cigarette burn on his hand. He had kept running his hands over the new detailing on the bike, so Sherlock had “accidently” dropped his cigarette at just the wrong (right) moment.

Sherlock’s head snapped up as the dull yellow Watson tank pulled into a space not far from the Irregulars’ corner. John got out of the drivers seat, and stood for a minute carefully adjusting the collar of the blue button up he wore under a simply dopey sweater vest. _Honestly,_ Sherlock wondered _what is it with squares and sweater vests?! Do they_ want _to get picked on?_ He watched as John walked around the car and opened the door for his sister, he smirked, _always the gentleman_. John flicked a glance towards the gang and then did a double take, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock held his gaze, watching through half-lidded eyes as Johns’ eyes roved over him, taking in his long lithe body, artfully draped against his bike. The sweet innocent eyes took on a hazy cast as they traveled up from the scuffed leather boots, over the tight black trousers, the tighter black t-shirt, and rested the v-neck collar that exposed his pale, curling collar bones. Sherlock chuckled, blowing out a stream of smoke. John’s eyes followed his hand as he lifted his cigarette to take another puff. His eyes lingered on Sherlock’s lips, watching as they parted and formed a perfect O. Blue eyes met stormy grey, and a darling blush exploded across John’s cheeks. _You want it_. Sherlock grinned his wolfs grin, returning the eye-groping with pleasure. _I know you want it, so come and get it._ Still grinning, he raised his hands to gently rub the purple bruise that splayed across his cheekbone. He was pleased to see John wince and look guilty. He was certain John was about to approach and apologize, when someone called “Johnny!”

John turned to see Mary Watson running towards him. Her hair was once again pinned in the way Harry had showed her, and the lack of makeup allowed her sweet young face to practically glow in the spring sunshine. “Your Majesty!” he cried, she giggled and tugged him into the school. Harry followed amusedly, casting a knowing glance back at Sherlock before flouncing into the school. 

Sherlock watched fuming as Mary Morstan –“Oh my god, is that Ugly Mary?!” Sally shrieked – trotted up to John, _his John_ , and laughed prettily at something he said. John smiled ( _that’s MY SMILE_ ) and allowed her to grab him by the hand and drag him into the school. Sherlock let out a vicious snarl, throwing down his cigarette and grinding it with his heel rather harder than necessary. He ignored the curious stare Lestrade was giving him, and the Jealous one from Moriarty. He spat out an angry curse then pushed away from his bike and, flinging his jacket over his shoulder, strode angrily towards the school, the Irregulars trailing sheepishly behind him. _Someone needs to die._

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was surrounded by a menacing cloud as he strode through the school. It grew bigger and blacker as the day went on. Rumors were flying about his bruise, there were many ridiculous rumors, the most prominent being that Sherlock had been trying to woo Mary away from John, and John had retaliated by beating him up. If only they knew that it was looking to be just the opposite. If Sherlock heard that John and Mary were pinned one more time, he was going to hunt that girl down and rip her hair out by the roots. His mood was truly murderous at lunchtime as he watched the two sitting at a table with some other friends, laughing and smiling - _THAT’S MY SMILE._ Sherlock in love was a dangerous thing, but he maintained his iron control until the walk to Chemistry. He and his gang were walking down the hall, taking up perhaps more than their fair share, as was their habit. When Sally Donovan accidently/on purpose knocked into a cube for the fifteenth time, this one did not just duck his head and shuffle off like the others had done. Instead he turned, punching Donovan in the jaw and snapped “Watch where you’re goin’, fuckin’ nigger!” Before the boy could so much as blink, he was pinned against wall by a thin cold hand pressed against his jugular. 

“ _You need to watch your language_.” A cold voice hissed in his ear. Sherlock pulled back, staring coldly at the boy with grey eyes turned dangerously dark. “See that?” He asked, jerking his head towards Donovan. “That’s _mine_.” He leaned in so that he and the now purple-faced boy were nose to nose. “I don’t like it, when people hurt what’s mine. I don’t _like it_ when people touch what’s _mine_.” The boy was turning blue now, his legs jerking and kicking manically. The irregulars stood watching, some look worried others (well, Moriarty) looked gleeful. Donovan watched with fiery eyes as Sherlock pinned the twitching boy to the wall. She may not like Sherlock, but he did take care of his own.

“Oi! Drop ‘im now!” Sherlock turned his head to see John standing beside him, looking stern. “You didn’t hear what he said.” He growled turning back to stare at the glazed eyed boy. “Yes,” John spoke gently, as though speaking to a wild animal. “I _did_ , I did hear Sherlock. And it was foul. But I think you’ve proved your point.” Sherlock’s grip loosened slightly, and the boy took a desperate gasp, but he was still pinned to the wall, a foot above the floor. “Sherlock. Put him down.” John’s tone was even quieter, calmer, almost sweet. But it was hearing John say his name that allowed him to regain control, made it possible to drop the piece of trash upon the floor and step back. He nodded tightly to John, then cast a last glance down at the boy who was gasping and retching. He crouched down and rumbled cooly “Do not touch what is mine. Ever. Again.” He spat on the boy, then rose and walked calmly past John, running a hand through his wildly tousled curls. “Come along, Johnny Boy, a square like you can’t be late for class.” The rest of the gang scuttled off to their classes as John followed Sherlock obediently into Chemistry. Sherlock dropped into his seat, immediately propping one foot on the table. John sat more smoothly than Sherlock, he glanced concernedly over at Sherlock, but his head snapped forward when Sherlock looked back. “Look, John…” 

“It’s alright Sherlock.” John interrupted him, smiling – _That’s my smile_ – “I’d have done the same in your place. And I hope someone would stop me if I did.”

Sherlock sat back, content for a moment, reveling in the mental image of John pinning some faceless wanker to the wall. But, wait, he was angry with John. John had let Mary touch him. John had smiled _his_ smile at Mary. But more importantly, _John had let Mary touch him_. The bell rang and the lesson began, but after a few minutes John noticed Sherlock staring, almost glaring at him. 

“ _What?!_ ” he hissed at Sherlock.

 _You let her touch you. One hundred and sixteen times. I counted._ “You punched me.”

“ _You wanna talk about that now?!_ ”

“Why?” 

“ _What?_ ”

“Why did you punch me?”

“ _For God’s sake keep your voice down!_ ”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Answer the question, Johnny Boy.”

John sighed. _“You know why, you were being an arse._ ”

“No, that’s not it. That git in the hallway was being an arse, and you didn’t punch him.”

" _Fine, it was because you were being a bully. You are a bully._ "

Sherlock was affronted. He was a gangleader, a mastermind, so much more than a mere bully. However, he simply replied "And that bothers you?"

John stopped whispering " _Yes_ it bothers me! Of _course_ it bothers me! You hurt people!" 

Sherlock shrugged. What did he care about people? 

"Maybe they deserve it." As he spoke, Sherlock used John’s moment of distraction to stretch his arms upward with a casual yawn and let his right arm settle on the back of John’s chair. _Mine_. He couldn't let Mary Morstan's unspoken claim stand a minute longer.

"Yeah? Well maybe they don't! Not that you seem to care either way..."

“BOYS! SILENCE!” This came from the teacher, who seemed incapable of speaking at any volume other than maximum.

John didn't notice what Sherlock was doing until his arm was already in place. Suddenly he felt a heat pressed against his back. He looked to see a thin white hand on his chair. A hand that was attached to a leather clad arm that was practically wrapped around his shoulders. He glared over at Sherlock, who was staring interestedly at the teacher. John felt a blush creeping up his neck. There was no way Sherlock Holmes was interested in him. The cool, dangerous greaser could have any girl in school hanging off of his every dark,deep toned word. Maybe he was misinterpreting this. Sherlock did seem to have a tendency to drape his long limbs over every available surface, perhaps the arm on the back of his chair was a totally unconcious action. And anyway, Sherlock would never be so stupid as to publicly imply a physical relationship with another boy. He'd be eaten alive the minute someone noticed the inappropriate touching! Yes, John decided, blowing out a stressed breath, definitely not intentional. Best to just ignore it. 

Sherlock’s heart seemed to be squeezed in a vice-like grip as he waited for John to knock his arm away. He'd definitely noticed it, his tense posture and the beautiful blush creeping up his neck were proof enough of that. But he didn't move. He just sat there, staring straight ahead, blushing that _delicious_ blush. After five minutes of tense, breathless waiting, it became clear that John was not going to shove him away. Sherlock felt like a balloon inflated in his stomach and floated up, bursting in a hundred electric shivering tingles in his brain. He felt a silly leering smile spread across his face. He suddenly felt like singing. _Good Lord,What was wrong with him?!_ The big tough greaser, who had seduced Irene Adler, the school ice queen, who had turned Irene into a lovesick school girl and dropped her at a moments notice - all without even ruffling his curls. But this boy, this square little nerd from nowheresville had smacked him flat on his ass. Literally and figuratively speaking. He was sitting in the middle of school grinning and almost giggling because John Watson had ALMOST let him touch him. He was more het up over an “almost touch” with John, than he had been over an all out make-out session with Irene!

Sherlock’s arm remained in its place for the rest of class, and at the end, he once again escorted John to his locker. Wiggins caught up with them in the hall, and though he talked to John in a friendly way, his left hand never left his jacket pocket, where Sherlock knew it to be gripping his flick-knife. As they reached Johns locker, Sherlock jerked his head, silently telling Wiggins to beat it. He left reluctantly, glancing back at them over his shoulder. As John opened his locker, Sherlock leant against the one beside it, content to simply watch that deceptively powerful muscle shift under the god-awful sweater vest, as John reached up to put books on the shelf. He reached out to pluck a sleeve of the offending clothing. “This should be burned.”

John was offended “I like sweater vests!”

“And Psychopaths like killing, doesn’t make it fashionable.”

“I don’t kill people…” John grumbled, stuffing papers into his bag.

“That sweater might.”

John was about to retort when Mary ran up to them. “Johnny! Do you mind giving me a ride home again today? My mother said- Oh.” She noticed Sherlock leaning casually over John, getting a bit too far into his personal space. Everything about his posture exuded an over all statement, even if Mary didn't realize it she instinctually recognized the universal statement of " _MINE._

“Oh, Mary ,hi. S-sure, I can drive you, I’m sure Harry won’t mind.” Mary nodded mutely and turned to flee, when Sherlock called out “Mary.” She turned back to face him, shoulders hunched, braced for another insult. “I wish to apologize for my behavior yesterday. It was most unkind of me, and I am thoroughly ashamed of my actions.”

Mary blinked dazedly. “Oh, um… it’s fine… I guess… Th-thanks for apologizing…?”

Sherlock waved his hand royally “Not at all.”

Still confused, Mary wandered away, looking like she’d been thumped on the head.

John stared at Sherlock, a grin spreading across his face. “Why’d you do that?”

“Honestly?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock rose a thin white finger to trace the curve of John's grin. _That's my smile._ “I wanted to make you smile.” Then he leaned down and gave John a short, sweet kiss on the lips. John jerked back, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed.

Sherlock smirked at the red blush that exploded across Johns face and swaggered away, resisting the urge to punch the air in victory.

John looked after him, feeling a strange, bubbly sensation in his chest. There was no denying it now, Sherlock Holmes was definitely interested in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAAAAY TISSES!!  
> sooooo yeah, this felt like a lot to write, but it actually wasn't that much. More to come, and things are gonna start getting a bit heavier.  
> If anyone sees a mistake, please do not hesitate to inform me, I do not enjoy looking like an idiot. Thank you again to anyone who has taken the time to read this, and dropped comments and kudos - it means the world to me. Ciao Babe!


	4. Contemplation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeahahahaha! Another Chapter MOFO!! Sorry the updates are getting slower, but since people are actually reading this, I figure I should actually put some effort into writing it. I really am trying to improve the quality of the writing so please be patient. Also I NOW HAVE A BETA WOOOOOOOOT!!! Many thanks to dear KissMyAssButt67, It's good to have someone to keep me from posting typo ridden hogwash. This chapter is short, but important. I'd rather post more frequently with shorter chapters, if anyone feels differently, please let me know.

John sat at his desk doing homework. Well, pretending to do his homework. He was actually just staring blankly at the chemistry work sheet in front of him. He couldn't focus. The letters and equations seem to float around on the page, rearranging themselves to form snatches of conversation. " _You are fascinating Johnny boy... Seem to be the average Joe don't you... But you. Are so. Much. More._ " He sighed, scrubbing his face roughly. If only Sherlock knew.

He ran two fingers over his lips, the lips that Sherlock’s had so quickly brushed only a few hours ago. He felt that bubbly feeling in his chest again, but it was accompanied by an aching curling doubt. There were so many reasons that kiss had been a mistake. Sure, it had been exciting and electrifying, sending explosive tingles through every nerve in his body, but it had also been incredibly dangerous. If even one person had seen that kiss, the rumor of its existence would be all over the school by tomorrow. Nothing spread faster than rumors, and John knew that by the end of the week, he wouldn’t be able to do so much as walk in the parking lot without being stared at and quietly accused. Memories of the past floated back to him, of hateful whispers and suspicious glances. Of aching pain and loneliness and shame. People didn't take kindly to homosexuals, he knew from experience.

A twinge ran up his leg at that moment. John sucked in his breath at the sudden pain and held it in, willing the ache to pass. His right arm clenched over his left wrist, digging into the fresh bruises his father had left there after dinner. He knew that one pain would distract from the other, so he squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until tears formed in his eyes. Finally, the pain passed, and he let out a shaky breath. The bruises he kept so carefully covered were proof that such a kiss was not allowed. God, if his father ever knew... _That's it._ John decided. This, whatever it was he had with Sherlock Holmes could not continue. He could not risk being that hurt, that weak again. All other arguments aside, he barely knew the boy! All he had seen was that Sherlock was rude, violent, arrogant and disrespectful. He had those brilliant deductive skills, but he seemed to use them primarily to show off. Or offend someone. True, he was protective of his friends, in a possessive, nearly-killing-a-guy kind of way. He had apologized to Mary, ( _Though that was for me…_ John thought , blushing and rubbing his neck) and there was no denying that he was devilishly attractive. Those bright, keen eyes that were always shifting color,the tall, lean body that looked positively sinful in any setting. Those sweet cupids bow lips... John shook his head so hard his brain hurt. This COULD NOT HAPPEN. He could not think these thoughts and certainly could never act upon them. So it was decided. He would simply have to approach Sherlock tomorrow and make it clear to him that while it was all well and good to be friends, that kiss- or anything remotely like that kiss- could never happen again. 

But how would Sherlock take it? Perhaps he was only interested in John in a physical manner. Perhaps once it became clear that "Johnny Boy" was not going to play his little game, he'd drop John like a hot potato. Or maybe even turn on him. Even on his first day, he had heard stories of the monster that was Sherlock Holmes. It was said there was a boy in the hospital - Carl Something-or-other - who had been there for months, and had been put there by Sherlock. He'd seen the greaser, Anderson, wandering the halls covered in bruises, looking like a kicked dog. Now granted those bruises may have come from a rival gang, but that look… John knew that look all too well. He had seen it so often on the faces of his mother and sister, and occasionally on his own in the mirror, when he wasn't strong enough to keep up the act. That look of defeat only came from being hurt by someone you loved, respected, admired. Someone you trusted. And if Andersons "someone" was Sherlock, well he'd simply renew his vow to have absolutely nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes. 

But all of this was just conjecture. He knew better than to believe idle gossip! The only thing to do was talk to Sherlock, so he would. He would talk to Sherlock and accept the consequences. If Sherlock accepted his conditions, excellent. If he dropped John and never came back, good riddance. And if he got violent, tried to _motivate_ John well, he was no coward. He'd punched Sherlock before, and he'd do it again if he had to. He hoped it didn't come to that though. It'd be a shame to mar that perfect face. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock lay sprawled on his bed, flicking idly through some confidential papers he’d nicked from Mycroft’s office. He really needed to think of more creative passwords for his safe. He wasn’t usually interested in what Mycroft’s papers held – boring governmenty stuff – but he was absolutely bored to tears by his homework and desperate for some kind of mental stimulation. He opened another manila folder, ignoring the bright red “CONFIDENTIAL” stamped across it. The sheaf of papers he pulled out had very little of interest in it. Politics, politics, peace treaty, politics, deal with a Nigerian war lord, politics, politics, - oh lovely, contract killers! Oh, Mycroft was _hiring_ them. Dull. Then a photograph dropped onto his royal blue bedspread. John Watson? Why did Mycroft have a picture of John?! It was a candid shot, clearly taken from some distance away, of John chatting with Mary Morstan outside of the Route 221 Diner. God, he despised that girl. But that was beside the point. Clearly Mycroft was investigating his Johnny boy – but why? He had only known Sherlock for two days! _And how busy you’ve been in those two days…_

Sherlock rolled on his back, crushing most of Mycroft’s papers beneath him. Only earlier today he had kissed John Watson. Rather fast work, he had to admit. He grinned smugly, remembering Johns shocked expression and burning blush. The kiss had come much too soon, but in that moment, it had been necessary. Sherlock had to reestablish his claim on John; the one Mary had been tugging away from him. He brushed a hand over his lips, brow furrowing. Perhaps the kiss had been a mistake though… John clearly was fighting his homosexual tendencies, and the kiss might serve to drive him farther within himself. Sherlock may have scared him off. John was attracted to him, he was certain of that, but he needed to be coaxed, gently prodded into action, not yanked or forced. John didn’t take kindly to bullies.

He was such a fascinating puzzle. He had seemed so quiet and meek, until he had hauled off and punched Sherlock in the face. Thin fingers traced the purple bruise. That fantastic creature had actually punched him. Meek, mild-mannered John Watson had a dangerous streak. His first analysis had revealed as much, but the limp had thrown him off a bit. Wait – _the limp_. It hadn’t been there when he’d hit Sherlock, hadn’t been there when he had escorted Mary out of the school like some knight in shining armor. And the limp _had not been there_ when John had stopped him from killing the boy in the hall way. Of course, a psychosomatic limp. There was nothing wrong with John Watson’s leg. There may have been at some point, in fact it was likely, but there was no real pain now. Whatever had happened to him had left John with a deep mental scar, one that presented itself in ghost pains and a false limp. Why hadn’t he realized it at once?! Oh, stupid,stupid! – What had Lestrade said? “ _Just limps a bit when no one’s looking._ ” He only limped when he thought no one saw, when he let his guard down, allowed his insecurities to surface. A real limp would be present all the time, whether John wanted it to be seen or not. 

_Fascinating_. Once again, John had captured his interest totally. The boy who seemed so shallow and simple at first was vastly complex; with mountains of pain and secrets hidden in those baby blue eyes. Of course, Sherlock had known from the start he was not all that he seemed. The repressed sexuality was evidence enough of that, but it appeared those still waters ran much deeper. He would have to get to get to know John Watson. He felt a dark desire to peel back every layer of John until he saw all of him, raw and exposed. He had always loved a good mystery. Of course, getting close with John would difficult if the kiss – _that damn kiss_ – had scared him away. _Yes_ , Sherlock finally admitted to himself with a sigh, _that kiss had definitely been a mistake._

Only one thing for it then. He would have to talk to John. Explain it was an impulse and apologize, and hope to God John wouldn’t avoid him at all costs. Maybe if he was lucky, John would just punch him again and get over it. He wouldn’t mind that. Hmm, he hadn’t taken himself for a masochist… he wasn’t really, no. It was just that John looked so beautiful when he was roused, when he was violent. He radiated strength, and all the disguises he wrapped himself in fell away to reveal the real boy underneath. John Watson was a god. 

Sherlock groaned and yanked a hand through his curly hair. He sounded like a madman. A stupid, lovesick madman. He could not afford this kind of attraction, obsession, he could not afford to have a crush. It would muddle all of his processes, skew his perspective, make him blind to obvious facts. But damn it all, he wanted John Watson. And by God, he would have him. “Holy Hell,” he groaned aloud, saying the words for the second time “I’m in love.” He was in such deep shit.

He grabbed Mycroft’s picture of John and stared at it. What could Mycroft possibly want with John Watson? He knew Mycroft had eyes on him at all times, so perhaps Mycroft had heard of Sherlock’s sudden interest and was asking himself the same question: “What could Sherlock Holmes possibly want with John Watson?” If only Fatty knew. He tore the picture in half, crumpling the half with Mary in it and throwing it across the room. The half with John, With John smiling his smile, he tucked gently under his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooo there you go! Thank you to all the people who are taking the time to read this terrible fanfic, I promise it's going to get more interesting. I am absolutely overwhelmed by all the sweet comments I have received, and I wish I could snuggle each and every one of you! random ass question because I'm in a random ass mood - how do people feel about Mystrade? I'm debating whether or not to make it a factor....


	5. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blaaauuuuggh- I SORRY!!! I am sorry it has taken this long to get this posted, but the damn thing didn't want to be written! Unfortunately, this is probably the pace it's going to be from now on, because school starts on Monday (T_T)
> 
> Many thanks to my new Co-Author Mr_Dr_Professor_PhD, who has been absolutely vital in the development of this next part! Seriously Doc, I'd be lost without you. 
> 
> Warning, slight angst ahead, as I've said before, things are gonna get heavier. Alsoooo Casefic is coming!
> 
> Not britpik'd, and I own nothing.

The Watson tank pulled in the school parking lot. John turned off the car then sat staring unseeingly through the wind shield, nervously tapping the steering wheel. It would be easy! Just walk up to Sherlock, and ask to have a word. Be polite but firm, and pray to God none of the Irregulars beat him. Or stabbed him. Or - _oh god, what if one of them had a gun?!_ \- "JOHN!!"

"Wha- ?"

Harry rolled her eyes. "Do you think we should _maybe_ get out of the car?" John nodded mutely, looking out the window behind Harry, towards the Irregulars corner of the lot. Sherlock wasn't there. _Well, shit,_ he thought to himself. If he didn’t show, then they couldn’t have John’s carefully planned discussion _and_ it meant that Sherlock was avoiding John! _Why the hell would he avoid me, though? He had KISSED me for god’s sake!_ Harry snapped her fingers in his face. He flinched back, and she smirked, glancing between her brother and the greasers. "Don't worry John, your boyfriend will be here." 

_That_ got Johns attention. He glared at Harry, his eyes snapping with fear and sudden rage. "He is _not_ my boyfriend Harriet. And if I hear that you've spread ANY kind of rumor about us -" 

"Yeah, yeah, snakes in my bed, toads in the shower, mousetraps in all my drawers. Don't bother threatening me baby brother, I know all your tricks and they're not clever or frightening." Her tone was snarky, but she watched her brother sadly. She wished he wasn't so afraid of the truth, afraid of himself. Though she'd never admit it, she'd do anything to see her brother safe and happy. That's really why she had failed her senior year. It hadn't been much of a struggle, but after everything that had happened... she didn't want John going through his senior year without at least one ally in the school. She'd been even more certain of her choice when they'd moved to America. John would be live bait floating around in an American school.

And now he'd gotten tangled up with this Sherlock Holmes. Harry was wary of the gang leader, but she saw the way John looked at him, and the way he looked at John. They could be good for each other, and maybe John could get friendly enough with the Irregulars to introduce her to that Clara. She was a lovely piece of goods... It was Harry's turn to flinch as John suddenly opened her door for her- she hadn't even noticed him getting out of the car. She held up a hand to stop him and quickly snapped open the glove compartment, pulling out a flask and taking a swig. John was again glaring, but he looked more weary now. "Really? You're actually hiding it in my car now?"

"Mom checks my room every day!"

John shook his head and watched her shove the flask back into the glove compartment resignedly. He was already stressed over his planned chat with Sherlock. He really couldn't deal with Harry's alcoholic tendencies right now. He held her books while she got out of the car, glancing up as Mary called to him. He waved, smiling, but inside he was groaning. He liked Mary, she was a sweet girl, but he could tell that Sherlock did not. And it wouldn’t do to get Sherlock's back up before they’d even started. A motorcycle engines roar suddenly filled the air. _Oh thank god. Wait, Mary!_

Harry smirked at the silly grin that smeared itself across Johns face as he turned to watch Sherlock pull in on his sleek motorcycle. But she saw the crease between his brows as he glanced over his shoulder. Mary was on her way over to talk to them, already babbling about last night’s Algebra homework. He glanced back at her pleadingly. " Alright, go on then, I’ll distract Mary." John almost skipped away from her, and couldn't help saying, "Thanks Harry! You're the best sister in the world and I'm sorry I ever put snakes in your bed!" She chuckled, shaking her head, and turned to intercept Mary. The poor girl was real gone over her brother, too bad he was more interested in a certain delinquent greaser. 

John’s grin slid off his face and was replaced with a determined expression. He was terrified of having to say no to Sherlock Holmes, but it had to be done. He saw the Irregular named Wiggins playing with a flick knife. Well, did it really have to be done right now? It could wait couldn’t it? _No_. He squared his shoulders. This was no time to be a coward. And anyway, Wiggins couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, John could handle him if things got rough – _yeah but what about the six other Greasers?_ But they would be a threat no matter how long John waited. No, the time was now.

Clara sat on the side of Greg’s flip-top, and watched John Watson march towards them, looking like a soldier marching into battle. It was so adorable, how he nervous he was around the Irregulars. He never showed it, but she could tell. As if any of them would dare touch him after Sherlock had staked a claim. He had said “ _This one’s mine._ ” So that was all there was to it, do not touch. Though Clara had a feeling Sherlock was even less interested in beating John up than the Irregulars were…. She nudged him in the back with the toe of her Converse. He looked at her over his shoulder, holding a cig between his lips and arching an eyebrow. “Looks like Mr. Flutter Bum wants a word, Boss.” Sherlock followed her gaze to see John walking over. _Excellent_. So Sherlock hadn’t scared him off after all! Though from his stance, John looked ready for a fight – maybe he _was_ going to punch Sherlock. Alright, so be it. As long as he didn’t have to grovel on the ground begging for forgiveness. He imagined John’s flustered, blushing face as Sherlock groveled at his feet – maybe it would be worth it just to see John’s reaction. But no, Maybe John just wanted to talk. Maybe he wanted to tell Sherlock to bugger off. Gah, he couldn’t tell! 

Sherlock leaned idly against The Hell Hound, and watched John approach, his calm demeanor not betraying the internal conflict that was raging in his brain. John marched up and stood squarely in front of him, looking him straight in the eye. “A word, Sherlock?” Sherlock blinked, _no punch then_. Huh, he was slightly disappointed. But he nodded, throwing his cigarette on the ground and grinding it under his heel as he followed John under one of the trees that lined the walk to the School doors. John turned to face him and took a deep breath before plunging into his statement. “I have something to say, and I want you to keep quiet until I’ve finished.” He looked questioningly at Sherlock, as though questioning whether Sherlock was capable of keeping his mouth shut. Sherlock merely shrugged and leaned against the tree, propping one foot against it. 

John took another deep breath. “Right. Sherlock, I think you’re a good bloke and all that, despite the rather worrying violent tendencies you’ve displayed, but try anything like that kiss again and you’ll find your ass on the pavement.” Sherlock chuckled, his lips curling into a smirk as John continued. “It’s all very well and good to be friends, in fact I’d like to remain so, you’re the only other Brit in the school besides my sister, and you’re bloody talented with that deduction thing you do. But I am not interested in blokes, and not interested in you. I am sorry if I gave you a false impression, but I’m no pansy. So, if you’re angry, I understand. If you don’t wish to remain friends, I will not hold it against you. But try anything violent or handsy and I will not hesitate to beat the ever-loving shit out of you.” John let out a huff as he finished his speech. He shoved his hands into his pockets and watched Sherlock warily, not weakening his stance.

Sherlock grinned lazily. “And exactly how long have you been practicing that speech?” John sagged a little, glad that Sherlock had not immediately jumped him. “ _Hours_.” Sherlock nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well it was well planned. Friendly start, slight disapproval of my so-called “violent tendencies” – though not enough to get my back up, flattery to let me puff up, a nod to Queen and Country, and a firm promise of violence. Artfully done John, very well manipulated indeed.” John blushed and looked upset. “It wasn’t meant to be manipulative, Sherlock, I meant everything I said.” Sherlock watched him closely, surprised by the earnestness in John’s face. What a strange boy... “Yes, I believe you do…” John nodded and watched him expectantly. “So are we alright, or do I get a knuckle sandwich?”

Sherlock pushed away from the tree and threw an arm around Johns shoulder, noticing how he flinched before accepting Sherlocks closeness. “Yeah, we’re O.K. Johnny Boy. Though I want to make one thing clear about you’re not being a pansy.”

John watched him warily as Sherlock led him towards the school. “Yeah?”

“I don’t believe you.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next week flew by, with John and Sherlock’s friendship finding an odd kind of balance. John accompanied Sherlock about the school, chatting and laughing, admiring his wild deductions and keeping him from killing any student dumb enough to provoke him. He still had those dangerous thoughts, but he was strong enough to keep them buried deep, especially since Sherlock hand adopted his ‘hands-off’ policy. Sherlock kept his hands to himself, but watched John with knowing eyes, slowly deducing more about the golden boy most of the school had fallen in love with. As Greg had mentioned on the first day, John had managed to make an enemy of Sebastian Moran, but otherwise it seemed everyone adored him.

Girls followed them in the halls, whispering to each other and giggling whenever either of the boys looked at them. The teachers doted on him, admiring his work ethic as well his respectful manner. Even the lunch ladies, who never spoke to any student except to snarl “Whaddaya want kid?!” - cooed at John, and gave him extra helpings of the desserts. Rumors flew that he was bribing them, but Sherlock knew the truth. John Watson was simply kind. Unspeakably kind. He had a temper, and Sherlock sometimes saw a ghost of something in John’s tired blue eyes, but he always was kind and polite, even to those who didn’t deserve it.

The tiredness he sometimes saw in John’s eyes worried him. Sherlock willingly admitted to himself that he was absolutely smitten with John Watson, and seeing the hard, aching look that came to John’s face when he thought no one was looking, worried him to no end. He knew it had to do with his father. It was clear enough from the bruises both John and Harriet sported, that their alcoholic father had a nasty temper. But it was more than that. A violent, asshole father didn’t give you a psychosomatic limp. Not when you were someone as strong as John Watson. The question bothered Sherlock for days, until he finally decided to just ask John. He wouldn’t like the prying, but Sherlock had learned that John appreciated up-front honesty. 

So there he sat in the back of the Chemistry, watching an angry, embarrassed John’s face for any clue. “What do you mean ‘What’s he done to me’ ?! What’s _who_ done to me?!” 

“Your father John, obviously. I want to know what your father has done to you.”

“Who s-says he’s done anything?” John asked, resisting the urge to rub his neck. Sherlock had pointed out to him several days ago, that he always rubbed his neck when nervous or lying, and he refused to give him the satisfaction of proof. Instead he rubbed his wrist, pushing up his sleeve, revealing the yellowing bruises on his wrist. Sherlock grabbed his hand swiftly, but gently, looking John in the eye as he traced his thin fingers over the hand-print shaped bruise. “You say, Johnny Boy. Every time you show up to school with new bruises, you make it painfully clear what’s going on at home.” John shifted, angrily wrenching his arm away from Sherlock's gentle grip. He did not want pity. “Well if you know what’s going on, why ask me?” 

“ _Because there’s more_.” Sherlock hissed emphatically. “There’s more that you’re not telling me, that you keep hidden." John shifted his eyes away, staring at the desk in front of him. “Some things are hidden for a reason, Sherlock.” He said it quietly, and Sherlock was surprised at the grief in his tone. He watched John carefully, saw how he clenched his hands, how he fitfully jerked his collar, checked to make sure his shirt was tucked in. Saw how he rubbed his shoulder. Rubbed his shoulder… _What are you hiding?_ He thought desperately. He hated how this mystery danced right in front of him, and yet he could see nothing. _John never touched his shoulder…_. Suddenly he reached forward and tugged John’s shirt to the side, popping buttons loose and exposing his bare shoulder.

He ignored Johns indignant shriek, frozen at the sight of scarring on Johns shoulder. Scarring from… a bullet wound. His eyes traced across what little of Johns chest was exposed, those few precious inches he could see were covered. Welts, scars, cigarette burns, _my God what has he done to you?!_ He jumped slightly as John smacked his hand away roughly, buttoning up his shirt and glaring wildly. Oh, _not good_. He had clearly just crossed a major line. But he was determined. He had to know. “How could you hide this from me?!” John glared back at him, an indefinable emotion on his face. He hissed “As I said _Sherlock_ , things are hidden _for a reason. Just let. It. Alone._ ”

“John, I can’t just let this go - ”

“You can, and you _will_.”

Sherlock grabbed again at Johns wrist, staring into stormy blue eyes. “We’ve covered this John, I don’t allow hurt to come to what’s _mine_ .” John yanked his arm away roughly. He stood up quickly, knocking over his chair in his haste to get away from those dangerous, all-seeing eyes. "Who says I'm yours?" he hissed quietly. 

Sherlock reached out a hand towards him, eyes storming with anger and concern. "John-"

"Piss off." John snarled, snatched up his bag and rushed out of the classroom. The teacher was about to give chase when Sherlock shoved past him "HEY!" the teacher called, but at that minute the bell rang and he was dragged into the hall with tidal wave of students.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John sprinted to the car, glad that Harry was already there when he arrived. “Get in.” He said stiffly, slamming his own door. Harry obeyed, recognizing a tone she rarely heard him use. John was angry. Very angry. But she could tell from the wetness in his eyes that he was also hurting. “Johnny?” She asked quietly as he revved the engine and burned rubber out of the lot, nearly running down a jock as he did so. “Johnny, are you okay?”

“No I’m not BLOODY OKAY, _HARRIET_.” His voice rose in volume quickly, as a couple tears escaped his eyes and ran down his cheeks. _Why couldn’t Sherlock leave well enough alone?!_ Harry kept quiet the rest of the car ride, knowing it was best to leave him be. John always had to work these things out for himself. He was calmer as he pulled into their driveway, glad to see his father was not yet home. He trotted around the car and opened Harry’s door for her. “I’m sorry.” He said, looking ashamed. “For shouting.” She smiled, and tried to hug him but he shuffled back, and quickly went inside. As she followed him in she heard the door to his room close with a soft _click_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was frantic as he chased John out of the school. He had really done it this time. _What the Hell had he been thinking?!_ He _knew_ not to push John! Things had been going so well, he was getting closer every day to getting John to admit his interest, and then he had to ruin the whole thing! He cursed as he saw the old Watson tank squealing out of the parking lot. Nothing for it, he’d just have to follow John home and confront him there. It was another invasion of his privacy, but Sherlock could not let things stand. He must apologize and soon, before any more damage could be done. He sprinted to the Irregulars corner of the lot, but as a he approached, he could tell something was off… suddenly he froze, his heart turned to lead in his chest. 

_“Where the Hell is my bike?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta daaaaaaah! so yeah, I have a butt-ton of writing to do. The Doc (my cowriter extraordinaire) gave me a bajillion and two things to work with so things are really going to take off! 
> 
> Clara calls John "Mr.Flutter Bum" - Flutter Bum was a term for an attractive young man used a lot in 1950's America.
> 
> A million thanks to anyone who has taken the time to read, comment on , and leave kudos on this fic. I can't believe people have actually bookmarked it! It really means a lot, and if you have any suggestions, or see any boo-boos, do not hesitate to let me know.  
> Ciao Babe!


	6. The Game's Afoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Hell breaks loose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaaack! And anotha chapta is BOOM! DONE. This one has twice the word count of any of the others, and yet it seems to go twice as fast. Oh Well, Loads more to write. Oh aaaaand WE GOT OVER ONE THOUSAND HITS HOW FREAKING AMAZING IS THAT?!?!?!?!? Warning: Drug use - though to be fair it wasn't illegal in the 1950's. But it is illegal now and I in no way, shape, or form condone the use of illegal and mind-altering drugs. But Sherlock does ;) .
> 
> This Chapter is dedicated to Lapis_Lazulli and ejaner1, both of whom left the sweetest, most wonderful comments I could ever ask for! 
> 
> As always, a bajillion thanks to my co-writer Mr_Dr_Professor_PhD, who gave me a little note to stick in :
> 
> Hey, Mr_Dr_Professor_PhD here!  
> I don't do a lot of the 'making events come alive' thing that Angstandporn does, but I do what I can to help with the storyline. We love the kind comments, but feel free to leave suggestions as well. We like ideas. Thank you for Reading!!!
> 
> Not Britpik'd, and I own nothing

John closed his bedroom door quietly, dumped everything on the floor, and stumbled onto his bed. He lay on his back and threw an arm across his face, with silent tears seeping from his eyes, and trickling down his cheeks. _Damn Sherlock_. Things had been going so well. He was happy, he had friends, he had a best friend. A best friend he couldn't take his eyes off of. He had the complex mess of emotions that he really couldn't admit to having, but at the same time, enjoyed in his own secret way. He had a life, he had a little adventure.

But all that would be ruined if the truth came out. Everyone would run-not -walk away from him if they ever found out what a wreck he and his family were. Or they'd look at him with frightened eyes and babble about how sorry they were, how terrible it was. He didn't want pity, he was strong enough to take care of himself, but sometimes it was _so hard_ to keep going, to pretend nothing was wrong. And Sherlock seemed determined to make it even harder, to ruin everything.

He was alright if he didn't talk about it, didn't think about it and didn't admit he was hurting inside. But to have Sherlock expose him like that, to stab a knife right into the most sensitive part of him... That hurt a lot. Some things are hidden for a reason. Some things were meant to be hidden. Sherlock Holmes should not look where he was not welcome!

 _But of course Sherlock would dig_ , John thought, _that's what Sherlock did_. He couldn't stand a mystery, and with his gift for seeing everything, did he honestly ever believe Sherlock wouldn't find out about it? John scrubbed his face, and sighed. He was being melodramatic. It could still be all right, Sherlock hadn't understood the story behind the marks, the scars, the bullet wound... John tossed and turned anxiously on the bed. But now He would keep trying. Sherlock was like a dog with a scent, once he caught it, he would not leave it alone until he found the truth. And then he would hate John. Loathe him. But maybe Sherlock would be smart enough to realize he had gone too far, and let it go. John was enough of a fool to hope.

Well, one thing was certain. John would not speak to him until he apologized. He had TOLD Sherlock not to pry, had TOLD him to leave it alone. But that git never listened. The tears finally stopped and were replaced with righteous anger. Good, anger was good, he could deal with anger. Anger wasn't weak. He found a sense of clarity in it, it cleared his head and pushed other messy emotions out of the way. He sighed again (he was doing that a lot lately) and shook his head. He had been stupid to run away earlier. Stupid and weak. Oh well, what was done was done. No point dwelling on it, no point letting it stew, it would simply drive him mad. He sat up and grabbed his bag, he might as well start on his homework, that would distract him. Let him focus on something else.

He was halfway through his reading assignment when the telephone rang in the hall. He ignored it, knowing his mother would answer it. He was surprised however, when there came a soft knock on his door. His mother pushed it open and poked her head in. "Phone for you John, a nice young man, says his names Sherlock." John sighed and stood up, "Right Mum, coming." Sherlock probably wanted to apologize, or hound him some more for answers. And John really wasn't in the mood for either. But he followed his mom out the door.

He answered the phone wearily. "Sherlock, I really don't want to talk right-"

"John I need your car."

"What - no! Use Greg's!"

"It's in the shop. John, I don't have time to argue. I need your car NOW."

"Well why-"

"They've taken her! They've _Taken Her_! I swear, I will to rip this town apart to find her! But you've got to help me, _I need your car_." Sherlocks voice was frantic, John had never heard him this upset before, and for the moment all thoughts of his previous betrayal flew out of his mind. Instead he was seized by cold terror. 

"Sherlock, Sherlock! Slow down! Who's been taken?! Sally? Clara? Mary?!"

"NO John, those are just people!"

"Well then who - ?"

" _The Hound_." Sherlock snapped sounding viciously impatient.

"The hound? Wait, someone stole your dog? Why on earth-"

"NO John! Not a dog! What the hell would I do with a dog?! I'm talking about The Hell Hound! My MOTORCYCLE!"

John stood speechless for a moment. "You have got to be joking."

"Joking is for the bored and weak-minded! I am not joking _I am Panicking_!"

"You're telling me that after the stunt you pulled today, you're calling me - not to apologize - but to scare the living hell out of me and demand that I help you FIND YOUR SODDING BIKE?!

"Well.... yeah."

John stared at the phone in disbelief, then slammed it down so hard the bell in the phone jingled slightly. Of all the... He rushed into his room and sunk his fists into his pillow over and over again. "STUPID, ARROGANT, SELF CENTERED, INTERFERING ASS!" He roared, throwing a punch so hard it pulled him off balance and he fell forward onto the bed. He rolled over to see Harry in the doorway, with his mother peeking over her shoulder.

"You alright there, Johnny?" Harry asked, eyes dancing with amusement.

He huffed, feeling embarrassed. He hated showing violent temper around his mother; she got enough of that from her husband. "Yeah, fine. Sorry Mum, lost control..." she smiled sweetly, waving her hand. "It's quite alright John, but I pity the pillow, it's abused enough as it is." she twinkled at him happily; she and Harry had the same eyes. "What was that all about anyways?” Harry asked, swanning into his room and flopping down beside him.

"Just rearranging Sherlock Holmes's face." he grumbled, rubbing his forehead and sighing once again. His mother leaned against the door frame. "I've heard of the Holmes Family. Very well off from what I understand. The eldest son's in government. Ambassador for England or something. From what I've heard, the younger one's supposed to be a bit of a trouble maker."

"Believe me Mum, trouble maker doesn't begin to define him." At that moment the phone rang again, and they all turned their heads to where it sat on the hall table. "Bet it's for yoooouuuu!" Harry sang. His mother looked at him expectantly.

John got up and stomped to the phone. "Watson residence."

"John! Thank god, we've got to catch this bastard. I would have called back right away but I'm at a payphone and I ran out of change. Anderson finally coughed some up though so-" SLAM! John hung up, once again with unnecessary with force. Jesus, Sherlock really wasn't getting the message!

_RIIIINNNG_

"hello?"

"Why do you keep hanging up John?! We've got a case to sol-" SLAM!

_RIIIINNGG_

"What, Sherlock?!"

"Is this about earlier? I'm sorry about that I really am, but right now it's really not import-" SLAM!

_RIIIIINNNNG_

"SHER-"

"WILL YOU STOP DOING THAT! THIS IS A MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH JOHN!

"Who's life or death Sherlock?"

"The bastard who stole the Hound obviously! He'll live if I don't catch him, and that's more than he deserves. But that comes later. I found a clue. There's some tire tracks-" SLAM!

John shook his head. A case, a mystery... It sounded fun, but He didn't want to get interested. He was angry with Sherlock. Sherlock had ripped into an incredibly tender part of him, and now was calling, demanding help and acting like it had never happened! Well....that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. After all, John didn't want him to pry.

He flinched as his mother laid a small hand on his shoulder. "Sounds like your friend needs help John." he looked over his shoulder at her knowing grin. "He'll be fine Mum. He doesn't really need me. And anyway, I don't want to help him." His mother was shocked. "Johnny! I thought taught you better than that! You should always help someone if you're able!" John shrugged sulkily. His mother folded her arms and said "This isn't the John I know. The John Hamish Watson I know would do anything, come hell or high water, to help a friend. What did this boy do to make you so angry?"

John spoke quietly as he rubbed his shoulder. "He pried." His mothers eyes flickered to his shoulder and back to her son's face with a sad, knowing look. "Oh Johnny, people are always going to pry. That's just a fact of life. That's no excuse not to help them." she straightened suddenly and brushed at her apron. "Your father is going to be out all night, he left word at Angelo's Bar that he wouldn't be back until tomorrow night. So you've no excuse there, do you understand?" John nodded, and watched as she headed towards the kitchen. "I expect you to make the right decision, young man."

He sighed, and stared at the now silent telephone. Great, Sherlock had probably given up and chased after his mystery already. Leaving John in the dust. He jumped and swore as the phone rang suddenly. He snatched it up- "Sherlock?"

"Uh, no, no sorry. Uh, this is Greg Lestrade here." John blinked. "Oh, hi Greg. What's wrong? Is Sherlock-?!"

"Sherlock’s fine, John. Well. I mean, he's turned into a raving psychopath, but he's not injured or anything." Greg sighed, sounding put upon. "Look, John, could you please come help us out? You're the only one who can handle him when he gets like this and if it goes on much longer I think he might kill both Anderson AND Donovan. He's frothing at the mouth about this motorcycle and insists on hunting down the thief alone. We all know that's a bad idea, but none of us Irregulars can talk any sense into him. And _Jim's_ damn near encouraging him." John growled at the mention of Jim Moriarty. He didn't like the small Irregular. There was just something off about him, and he was always following Sherlock with hungry eyes. Not that John was jealous...." Alright," he sighed, "put him on."

"Thanks pal! You're one in a million!" there was silence on the line until suddenly John’s ear was filled with Sherlocks deep baritone. "John."

"Yes. Look, Sherlock I'm sor-"

"The thief left tire tracks when he stole the Hound. Meet me in the school parking lot, ten minutes." 

"Oh, alright, but I don't think I can make it in ten without breaking the law-"

"FIFTEEN then. Hurry. Oh and John?"

"Yeah?"

"Be prepared, could be dangerous."

A thrill ran through John. "I don't mind a little danger."

He could almost hear Sherlocks wolfs grin through the phone "I know. 

That's why I said it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Irregulars sat on the curb and watched Sherlock paced around the school parking lot, examining the tire tracks for the hundredth time. Obviously his bike, he'd know that tread anywhere. The track swerved and jerked crazily- the thief obviously had no idea how to drive the damn thing, and there was something wrong with his vision... He could tell from some of the angles that his depth perception was off. But there was something more, it looked as though he had swerved to avoid something, but what?! And where the hell was John?! He needed his car, to follow the tracks, and he needed John, to keep him from doing anything stupid. It really was odd, how dependant he'd become on John. Probably not a good idea, especially since he seemed only capable of driving John away, but - the Watson tank rumbled into the lot. _About time_!

The Irregulars all scrambled to their feet as John pulled in, but he had eyes only for Sherlock. He looked fantastic, his leather collar flipped up, his hair in wild, curly confusion, his eyes alive with anger and deduction. John could get used to this Sherlock, as annoying as he was. The Irregulars scuffled after Sherlock as he strode over to the faded yellow car. "See the tracks John?"

"Yeah. Blimey, your gonna need new tires mate."

Sherlocks eyes snapped with rage " I'm afraid so. But first we have to find the Hound. Right, how many seats do you have?"

"Three in front, three in back, obviously one’s already taken." John watched Sherlock eye his gang speculatively. "Pop your boot."

"What? Why?"

" _Now John!_ " Sherlocks cold commanding tone was enough to make them all snap to attention, and John climbed out and opened the trunk quickly with no comment. Sherlock eyed the empty space before nodding. "Anderson and Donovan in here. Everyone else up front."

"What?!" John and the couple shrieked in unison. Sherlock ignored them and used his surprising strength to stuff Andy unceremoniously into the trunk of the car. Donovan got in without assistance, wedging herself in with a mutinous look. "What if we can't breathe?!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Then you kick out a tail light."

"No you Bloody well WON'T!" John roared, giving the pair the eyeball as Sherlock slammed the lid down.

"Everyone else in. _Now!_ "

John slid in behind the wheel, pleased at how close Sherlock was sitting on the bench seat. "They won't ALL fit in here!"

"Maybe not!" Mike said cheerfully as Clara perched in the open window, shoving her feet in his lap. "But we can damn well try!" John was full of protests, but they all squeezed in. Greg sat up front next to Sherlock, and Mike and Wiggins sat in back with Moriarty in between. Clara had wanted to remain in the window but John had point blank refused, and even taken the keys out of the ignition to prove how serious he was. So she ended up laying across the boys laps in back, grumbling about knees and awkward closeness to disgusting males.

They were chatting and laughing when Sherlock shouted for everyone to "SHUT IT!" 

Everything froze. "Do you hear that?" Sirens. Police sirens. The whining noise grew louder and louder until a Police car went whizzing past the entrance of the lot. "After him John!" Sherlock cried, and John floored it, not even thinking of speed limits or road laws, the game was on. The Irregulars cheered and whooped as John hurtled after the police car, and occasional thumps came from the trunk, reminding them of where their least favorite members were. The sun was setting as they flew down the highway.

John was distracted when Moriarty leaned forward, wrapping his arms loosely around Sherlocks shoulders. "Watcha gonna do when you get 'im Big Daddy? Gonna make 'im _squeeeeal_?" John shivered at the leer on Moriarty's face, and tried not to admit, even to himself, how much he hated Jim touching Sherlock. He had trouble concealing the stupid grin that forced its way into his face when Sherlock merely shook his head and shrugged Jim off irritably, eyes never leaving the Police car in front of them. 

The car suddenly turned and John jerked dangerously to follow it into a suburb. John slowed as they approached a square that was glowing red from the lights of the various emergency vehicles parked all around. Sherlock groaned as he saw his bike on its side, one wheel spinning pitifully, under the big oak in the middle of the square. "It'll be alright Sherlock,"Greg patted him on the shoulder. "Nothing a mechanical genius like you can't fix." Sherlock seemed to take comfort at his words, but merely said "Stop here John."

John obeyed, and everyone piled out of the car. John rushed to let Andy and Sally out of trunk. They hadn't kicked out a tail light, thankfully, but they both looked rather worse for wear. "You drive like a God Damned MANIAC!” sally snarled at him, rubbing the back of her head and clutching her ribs. Anderson merely flopped on the ground groaning. John smiled apologetically "sorry, I don't usually, it’s just, thrill of the chase and all that."

Sherlock brushed past them saying "Don't bother apologizing John, their ride would have been miserable even if you drove like a ninety year old woman." John shrugged and trotted after Sherlock, stopping reluctantly at the caution tape that was set up, even though Sherlock ducked under like it was nothing. Greg followed after him, but the rest of the Irregulars lined up on either side of John, watching solemnly as the two boys approached a harried looking man in a suit and trench coat.

"Hiya Pop!" Greg called, waving at the man, who Clara identified to John as Detective Neil Lestrade, Greg's father. The Detective looked up surprised."Gregory? What are you doing here?" his face clouded over "Dammit Greg, if you've stolen my police scanner again-"

"No dad no! I swear, we just saw the car go by and followed it. We figured it was related to our case." 

Neil looked amused, as he always did when his son referred to his 'cases'. He loved to encourage his son’s ambitions, and he hoped Greg would one day join him on the force. "And what case would that be?" he asked

"Some ass-" Neil shot him a warning look. "Some joker stole Sherlocks bike." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the Hound. "That bike." Neil looked at Sherlock and grinned. He liked Sherlock, even with his lip and ego. "What I say kid? Something that flashy is bound to get stolen." 

Sherlock shrugged "Anyone who steals from me is bound to get caught. Where is the thief?" Neil nodded towards the Oak. "We think he's in the tree. He wrecked after going down those stairs, drove straight into the tree. We think he climbed up after he wrecked - HEY!"

Sherlock took off towards the tree, leaping over the bike. Neil had snatched at his collar but Sherlock was too fast. "Sherlock!" He yelled "Leave him alone! You can't interfere in an investigation!" 

Seeing that Sherlock was about to do something stupid (as well as illegal), John ducked under the tape and sprinted towards him, taking a flying leap and tackling him to the ground. " _Let. Me. Go_!" he snarled up at John. John ignored him and got his arms locked behind his back . "You heard the nice policeman, Sherlock, we can't interfere!" 

"DAMN THE POLICEMAN!" Sherlock roared, giving a tremendous heave and almost throwing John off. John cast a pleading look to the Irregulars, who were looking anywhere but at them. Only Moriarty stood looking, livid at the sight of John straddling Sherlock, wrestling with him and pushing his face into the grass. He was about to snarl at Jim to get over here and help him, when a soft kind of keening sound started emanating from the tree.

Everyone turned to stare at where a boys head had emerged from the branches. His face was scratched and bruised, and his eyes were strangely glazed and glossy. He continued the odd keening, waving his hand in the air, as though stirring a liquid with his arm. "Hey kid!" Neil called. "We're the police. Come down calmly and quietly, and lets see if we can figure this out." The boy stared at him vacantly, still waving his hand in the air. 

"Get down here Punk! I've got a score to settle with you!" Sherlock roared up at the vacant boy. "How dare you touch the Hound?!"

"YES!" the boy suddenly shrieked, making everyone flinch. "THE HOUND! THE HOUND OF HELL! I RODE UPON ITS BACK AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE!" Sherlock finally managed to throw John off and stood quickly, straightening his jacket, shooting him a resentful glare. But the boy was talking again in a kind of singing voice. "I rode through the fires of hell, I fought the beasts of the firey pit."

"What is he goin' on about?" John asked, watching the bizarre swirling arms with concern. Sherlock merely shook his head, watching the boy interestedly. 

Neil stepped forward carefully, so as not to spook the boy. "Tell us your name, son. I'm sure this can all be taken care of." When the boy didn't respond, he tried a different tack, cautiously asking "What are you doing with your arm there?" the boy finally looked down with wide eyes. " _The molecules_..." he whispered, as though speaking of a great, divine secret. "I can see the molecules. The prisms and waves of light in the air... It's beautiful! All I have to do is _waaaave_ my arm," he demonstrated, " and they dance at my command. No. Not at my command... I could never command them...."

"Why not?" asked Sherlock interestedly. John shushed him and whacked his arm, but he gave no notice. He seemed utterly fascinated by the babbling idiot in the tree. 

"Because we are one! We are the very essence of reality..." the boy swooped dangerously, nearly falling out of the tree, so violent were his gestures.

"He's got a screw loose!" one of the medics called. "Get him down so we can take him to the psych hospital, Lestrade!" Sherlock chuckled and shook his head, but the tree boy seemed incensed. "I'M NOT INSANE! YOU DARE INSULT ME?! I WHO HAVE CONQUERED THE GREAT HOUND OF HELL, WHO AM ONE WITH THE UNIVE-oof!!"

At that moment the branch he was wrapped around snapped, and sent him to the ground with a thud. All the Irregulars laughed and whooped, shouting catcalls and being so rowdy that a couple of uniforms ran over to shoo them away. Some complained, but they left amiably enough, calling back

"We'll see ya Boss!"

"Take care of him John!"

"Yeah, don't let ‘im do nothin’ stupid."

"Stupid is as stupid does y'know!"

Sherlock waved them off looking irritated. "Idiotic people."

John raised an eyebrow. "Well if they’re such idiots, why did you bring them along?"

Sherlock sniffed. "They can be useful at times. And anyway, they wouldn't have let us leave without them, they love the action."

John shook his head, watching Neil and a medic wrestling with the tree boy. "What an absolute nutter. Poor bloke, I hope they treat him kindly." he turned to jab Sherlock in the ribs. "And you. No killing him, d'ya hear? He's not responsible. Crazy people aren't responsible for the things they do."

"Oh he's not responsible John," Sherlock grinned, "but he's not insane either." 

"What?! Do you not hear him? Screaming and babbling about molecules and riding the Hound through hell-" John flinched as Greg, who had run to help his father, got kicked in the jaw by the flailing nut job.

"Yes, but don't you see? The dilated pupils, the shaking, the runny nose, the hallucinations - he's clearly under the influence!"

John glanced at where tree boy was being strapped to a gurney. He hadn't noticed any of those things until Sherlock pointed them out, but they still didn't tally. “Under the influence? Look, I know drunk, Sherlock, and that is not drunk."

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "Not _drink_ , John, drugs." 

"Drugs? Like aspirin? Aspirin doesn't drive you looney Sherlock-"

" _No_." he hissed. " Not Like aspirin. Like _mind altering chemical agents_. The boy's on LSD!"

"What the hell is LSD?"

"Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, it’s a new experimental drug the government is messing with. Produces extreme hallucinations, pleasant or unpleasant, consistent with the ones our friend in the tree described."

"And you know about this how?"

"My brother works in government and hasn't learned how to choose even a halfway decent safe code." 

John stared at him for a minute then seemed to realize something. "You have to tell them!"

"Tell who what?"

"Detective Lestrade, the Police! You have to tell them he's not insane!"

Sherlock folded his arms and raised an eyebrow "I don't HAVE to do anything, John."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, they’re taking him to the looney bin! He may never get out, even if the effects wear off, if you don't tell them what's really going on."

"The effects do wear off. And after they do, I’m sure he'll explain everything."

John rolled his eyes "Oh yeah, he's absolutely going to explain why he took top secret government drugs and went on a rampage with a stolen motorcycle." 

Sherlock turned to him, looking interested. "That is a point. Where did he get them I wonder? And why?" 

John smiled and shrugged. "Only one way to find out, you'll have to ask him. And you can't do that while he's in the bin."

"That's not the _only_ way John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But I see your point." Sherlock strolled over to the back of the ambulance where tree boy was now trapped. John watched as he spoke to Neil Lestrade and the medic, looking first confident, then arrogant, then frustrated, then livid, until he finally turned angrily and stomped away. John chased after him as he strode to the car, breathing heavily out of his nose. "What happened?!"

“Imbeciles!" Sherlock growled, getting in and slamming the car door. "Stupid, blind, incompetent imbeciles!"

"Sherlock, what-"

"They don't believe me!" He roared. "The medic said he'd never heard of the stuff, and that I must be making it up to cause trouble! ME! Sherlock Holmes!" John noticed the police staring and started the car hastily, hoping the engine would help drown out Sherlocks shouting. "Well what did Detective Lestrade say?"

Sherlock slumped, grumbling. "He said he'd like to believe me, but he couldn't make a decision until I could give him physical proof."

"And can you?"

He thought a minute. "Well, there is a way... The chemicals drastically elevate blood glucose levels, which should be extremely detectable..."

"Well then," John said, determined, "you know how to prove he's sane, you have a moral obligation to do it." 

Sherlock gazed at John with a thoughtful, calculating look. Then he nodded slowly, a corner of his mouth tilting upwards. "Alright John, I'll do it. But _you_ have to get a couple blood samples for me."

"How the hell am I gonna do that?!"

"Well obviously," the Wolfs grin spread across his face.

"You'll have to steal them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun duuuuuuun!  
> If you're reading this, it means you actually cared enough to read this and that mean I love you forever!!!!!  
> A million bajillion thanks to anyone who has read, commente, left kudos, or bookmarked this - it's just so amazing to get this kind of feedback!  
> School starts tomorrow so we'll see when the next chapter gets posted, I'll have to establish some kind of schedule for myself or it will never get done. 
> 
> Side note: LSD was not illegal in the 1950's, and was constantly experimented with by the government to see if its mind-altering effects could be used for mind control or chemical war fare. It is also extremely dangerous - it's ACID. IT WILL LITERALLY FRY YOUR BRAIN. just sayin'.
> 
> Well, I think that's all! Ciao Babe ;)


	7. Tea and Blood, Blood and Tea (Would you please pass the syringe?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wouldn't you like to know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My God. My brain is melting. I should have taken at least another day to finish this, but I felt so guilty, and I just wanted to get the fucker DONE. This one is almost 9,000 words long. Excuse me while I die. I hope to God you like it, because it's my favorite one So far. Blurg. Take it. Take it and leave me in peace. Oh. Guess what? WE GOT OVER A HUNDRED KUDOS BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGHGHGHGGHHGGH (T.T) - I'm not worthy.  
> Right, Imma go sleep for a month.
> 
> This one's for you MarketSalami!
> 
> A million gazillion thanks to the Doc, my brilliant Co Author.  
> Not britpik'd and I own nada.

John’s bike whizzed through the sleepy, early morning streets of his suburb, delivering papers. Usually the quiet whirring and ticking of the bike in the cool air was a soothing thing, but today all John heard was a whiny voice clicking - “ _stealthebloodstealtheblood stealthebloodstealtheblood_ ” 

He couldn’t believe Sherlock would ask him to commit a crime! And this wasn’t mere petty theft; he wanted John to steal someone’s blood. It seemed such a violation of the tree boy’s person, to just nick a couple tubes of his life essence. He could not believe Sherlock would think he would agree to do such a terrible thing.

Well, yes, he could. What he really couldn’t believe was that he HAD agreed. He had been so desperate last night for Sherlock to help Tree boy he would have agreed to steal the boy’s _arm_ , not to mention all of the blood in it! But everything looked different in the light of a new day, and John was sick with worry. What if they got caught? How illegal was it actually to steal from a hospital? To steal blood from a hospital must be incredibly illegal! And how on Earth could they ever pull it off?! The place was sure to be filled with Doctors and nurses, any of whom would notice if John just walked in and jabbed a needle in a patients arm. The whole idea was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. He was sure that Sherlock would realize that, eventually. Well, they would just have to rethink and try another way.

Maybe they could convince Greg’s dad to get the blood for them. He was a detective after all, and he seemed to like Sherlock - but did he like him that much? It would be gross misconduct, absolutely inappropriate for a policeman to give evidence to a delinquent teenage boy with a history of violence and no official standing. _No_ , John shook his head, throwing the Saturday special onto Miss Lyons front porch with practiced aim, _that wouldn’t work either_. 

He sighed as he reached the last house on the street. Just one more street and he’d be done, which was good, because he’d agreed to meet Sherlock at his house at 7:30. Why he wanted to meet so early escaped John, but he was glad of the early meeting now, eager to voice his concerns. Though it was likely Sherlock wouldn’t listen.

An image of Sherlock appeared in his mind. He grinned, thinking to himself of the wild eyed greaser who ran around deducing, commanding and threatening everything and everyone who got in his way. He was absolutely glorious last night, eyes full of cold fire, hair seeming to grow curlier and curlier the more excited he got. The cool efficiency with which he gave orders was so at odds with the wild rage that gripped sometimes him. It was hard to believe that the boy who commanded the Irregulars like a general in the army; and the one who had been desperate to strangle the bike thief, almost screaming with rage, were the same person. And yet they were. They were all part of the fantastic human explosion that was Sherlock Holmes. The utterly fantastic and handsome Sherlock Holmes. John shook his head, almost throwing himself off balance on the bike.

He could not think this way! He repeated every vow to stay away and keep his hands off Sherlock over and over in his head. Dangerous thoughts led to dangerous actions, as he well knew. It had been bad enough the last time, and that had been nowhere near this level of attraction. His father’s words echoed in his ear “ _I was beginning to think you were a poofter!_ ” 

That was a sick joke, as his father well knew. Didn’t his father beat him every day, wound him, and scar him every day for that? For an ill-timed rumor that had confirmed just that - that John was a poofter. His old man was eternally attempting to drive the sickness from his son, using whatever foul methods he deemed fit. Of course it wasn’t just a rumor was it? No, the agony had increased tenfold when he’d been stupid enough to get caught in the act. He had given in to his true self and what had that gotten him?

He thought back to those months in a hospital bed, to the aching ringing silence once he returned home. He remembered the horror and pain the first time his father had hurt him - and this hurting was beyond the drunken beatings. This hurt had intent, had malice, had rage, had fear. And it hurt all the more for that. But it was best not to dwell on it. Shove it down, lock it up, and move on. He had to be smart, had to be strong. And he would be. Despite the innumerable temptations Sherlock presented, John would not yield. He would never give in. He would never make the same mistake again.

Of course there were other reasons he couldn’t get close to Sherlock. With his deductive powers, he would easily figure out why the Watson family had moved to America, why his father had no visible means of income. And why there was a bullet hole in John’s shoulder. As much as he liked Sherlock, he’d have to be more careful from now on. Sherlock was currently distracted by his case, but John had no doubt he would eventually remember the horror of chemistry, and the horrible marks on John’s tortured skin. John realized he was frowning, and deliberately smoothed the line of his mouth. He had a best friend, that was enough. He would deal with any troubles if it meant he could be with Sherlock in even the smallest capacity. His devotion to that boy frightened John, and yet he did nothing to fight it. There was no point.

Hadn’t he had slipped so many times already?! Sherlock just had a way of getting John to act like an idiot, to become careless, to feel wild and…. Happy. Sherlock made him happy. A bitter darkness seemed to grow inside John. People like him weren’t allowed to be happy; his father had made that absolutely clear. John knew he should separate himself from Sherlock, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was hard to hurt someone who made you happy, and he knew his rejection would hurt Sherlock deeply. Despite how tough the Greaser acted, John knew he felt the … the _something_ between them, felt the bond, the closeness that had formed. And abandoning that would hurt them both deeply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John stopped back at his house to grab the address he had written down. His mother was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast for herself, John, and Harry, who had yet to appear. “Ah good, you’re back! Feeling hungry?”

He shook his head, “Sorry Mum, can’t stop; have to meet Sherlock in twenty minutes.” He dashed to his room, grabbed his bag and notebook, which had Sherlock’s address scrawled in it. He snatched a piece of toast from the table and buttered it hastily. His mother watched, impressed. “Two teenage boys meeting at 7:30 on a Saturday morning?! What is the world coming to?”

He shrugged, biting huge chunks out of the bread as he backed out the front door. “Let me know if you see any pigs fly!” he called, hopping once more onto his bike. He pedaled down the highway, and then turned into a much richer district than the one he lived in. He felt more and more uncomfortable on his shabby old bike as he rode through the streets, but he held his head high. He was as good as any one of these rich fellows with their huge houses and fancy cars, and probably better than most of them. He was glad when he stopped in front of the house at the end of the street, to see that while it was extremely nice, it was nowhere nearly as extravagant as some of the others he had passed. The place screamed money, but also refinement, class, and a certain surprising hominess John had not expected. He wheeled his bike around the side of the house; looking for the shed Sherlock had told him was out back. He stopped and gaped.

 _“Shed” my sweet Aunt Fanny!_ It was a full sized garage, large enough to hold four cars. All the doors were down, so he couldn’t see any cars, but he was sure that any in there were sure to be expensive and extremely shiny. Adjusting his collar, he knocked tentatively on the side door, which instantly flew open to reveal - “Sherlock?!” 

The boy in front of John looked like Sherlock, moved like Sherlock, smirked like Sherlock, but he looked so different it was mind boggling. There was no grease in his hair at all, letting the curls tumble and fall where they may. He was wearing clean, pressed slacks and an expensive button up shirt - which was a very improbable purple color. It was also a sight too tight for Johns taste; he blushed, averting his eyes quickly. He saw that the converse sneakers remained, though even these were cleaner and less ragged than the pair he usually wore. “Where’s the t-shirt and leather jacket?” he asked casually, trying not to betray his absolute adoration for the tight purple shirt. From the wolf’s grin spreading across Sherlock’s face, he knew he was failing.

“I don’t feel pressured to conform to the stereotypical norms of society _all_ the time John.” He stood back and gestured for John to step in. He wheeled his bike in carefully and lent it against the wall. “I wouldn’t think you were one for conforming to any kind of norm.” He grinned, looking around at the fascinating set up before him. Half the garage did hold the expected very-shiny car - Good god. It was a brand new Buick Roadmaster. John made a quick mental note not to get within five feet of the car - just one of them cost more than his entire family’s passage to America! The Hound sat next to the car, looking as though it had never left the garage, let alone been rammed into a tree. The other half of the garage seemed to be converted into a science lab, filled with things that seemed to have leapt off the pages of a sci-fi novel. He turned to Sherlock, who was watching him expectantly, almost worriedly. “What kind of mad scientist’s lab have you dragged me into?!”

“Do you like it?” Sherlock still looked worried. _He cares about my reaction_ , John realized, _he wants me to be impressed_. That was almost… cute. Not that he would ever call Sherlock cute, especially not to his face, but his behavior was undeniably adorable. “It’s a bloody cave of wonders! I don’t even know what half of those things do!” Sherlock grinned mischievously. “Brand new, some of them. Many aren’t even available to the public yet. Like that microscope, it can magnify up to ten times more than the previous model! Mycroft got it for me for my last birthday. He’s an absolutely rotten brother most of the time, but he does have a knack for getting me the most interesting toys.”

John watched bemusedly as Sherlock flitted around the makeshift lab, pointing out this and that hi-tech invention, looking for all the world like a six year old showing off his toys. _Where had this come from?!_ This was a totally different side of Sherlock he had never seen before. The Sherlock he knew at school was cool and tough, not giving a damn about anything. This Sherlock was nervous and intelligent and - dare he say it? - A bit of a nerd. It was amazing, incongruous and absolutely adorable. He nodded at the right places and tried to look as though he understood the science speak tumbling from Sherlock’s mouth. John was smart, and he knew Sherlock was smart, but he hadn’t realized how smart!! The boy could be a genius, in fact he probably was. He stared at a chalkboard that was covered with equations - was that Quantum Physics?! John suddenly felt extremely small and humble.

Sherlock, after introducing John to every minute detail of his Lab (including a framed letter from Albert Einstein) had become absorbed in some super sciency thing, and was now totally ignoring John. So he wandered around the garage, then over to the Hound, inspecting it with a critical eye.

Sherlock Watched as John wandered about the garage, keeping his hands jammed in his pockets, as though afraid to touch anything. He was surprised at how happy he was to have John here, in his most private space. He realized he wanted John to see this part of him. It was an extremely vulnerable part, but also an extremely honest one. This was the real Sherlock. The one who strutted around in leather and a cloud of smoky attitude was fun, and there was a level of reality to him, but he wasn’t really Sherlock. He was an image, a suit of armor carefully crafted to keep away the assholes and those he considered tedious. His mother understood that, to a certain extent, but neither Mycroft nor his father understood it at all.

By bringing John to his sanctuary Sherlock was inviting him, begging him, to understand. _See me_ he pleaded with John in his mind, _see the real me_. God he hoped John could. _This was all part of the plan of course_ , he promised himself, _to draw John in_. Did it perhaps also have something to do with the mind numbing level of affection he had acquired for John Watson? _Maybe_. But it definitely was still a calculated plan, with no weakness. Order, method, logic, precision, this was his religion. He almost snorted onto the slide he was pretending to inspect. Who was he fooling? John Watson was his religion. 

He'd do anything for him, hence his agreement to help the tree bound idiot who had gotten himself locked up. Normally, Sherlock would have let him wallow in the insane ward. He deserved it after the way he had treated the Hound. And anyway, helping people didn't pay - “no good deed” and all that. He sighed through his nose. That was “Greaser Sherlock” talking. The creature designed to protect and defend the vulnerable one inside. In another time, Sherlock would have been the one insisting they help this boy, but those days were long gone. He hadn't really helped anyone in a very long time. Until John had appeared, and started bossing him around. Insisting he had a "moral obligation" to do the right thing. What a naive, noble idea; one he himself kept buried deep inside, but the other seemed determined to drag out. Perhaps John would do more good for Sherlock than he had imagined, perhaps he could give him back a piece of his soul.

He watched as John ran a finger along the newly redone paint job. “What do you think? I’ve been working all morning.” John jumped as Sherlock spoke, and snatched his hand away as though it had been burned. He suddenly realized what Sherlock had said.

"- wait _'all morning'_?! It's 7 a.m. Sherlock, morning's only just begun."

He shrugged "I've been up since two."

John was horrified "Two?! As in two _A.M._?!” Sherlock nodded, looking nonplussed. "How many hours of sleep did you get last night?"

"Three or four I suppose, I don't sleep much when I'm on a case."

John shook his head, wondering how Sherlock was still standing. "That can't be healthy. You're going to collapse from exhaustion!" the curly headed idiot just waved a hand, and changed the topic quickly.

"You didn't answer my question, what do you think of her?"

John wanted to press the issue, but he could tell Sherlock would just continue to ignore him. He looked back down at the bike. "She looks good as new; I can't believe you've only been working on her for a few hours. How's she running?"

Sherlock growled, his eyes narrowed with annoyance. "Our friend the thief managed to utterly destroy the braking system, but I was able to replace it. I have a surplus of parts from all my experimenting with machines. The engine is running smoothly, but there's still something wrong with the transmission." 

John crouched down, looking at the machines inner workings with interest. "Wrong how?"

"It's making a grinding noise when I shift gears." Sherlock huffed, clearly frustrated, "but I can't figure out what's wrong! I've tried everything-"

"Does it stick?"

He blinked "What?"

"Does it stick? When you shift gears, do you have to jerk it hard to change?"

"Um... Well yes, but how-?"

"Then it's not your transmission." John watched Sherlock’s eyebrows rise, enjoying both catching him off guard for once, as well as knowing something he didn't.

"Well what is it, if it's not the transmission, oh Wise One?"

"The clutch cable. You might have to replace it, but it’s probably just loose, I can have a look if you like." John looked at Sherlock expectantly, but he just stared in a daze. John took that as ascension and pulled off his jumper, revealing the plain white tee-shirt underneath. He dropped it on the work table behind him then crouched back down, running skilled fingers over the Hound, looking for the source of the trouble. Nodding, He stood and went to one of the multiple tool boxes that lined the walls. "Do you have a small ball wrench?” he asked, pulling open a drawer revealing a seemingly random assortment of tools all jumbled together. "Jesus! Sherlock, how is this thing organized?!"

Sherlock finally responded "First by what they're usually used on, then which are commonly used in conjunction with one another, then quality, torque, pound of pressure per square inch-" John held up a hand. "Just -- point me to the ball wrench." Sherlock pointed to a red set of drawers in the corner. John went over and started digging through. Sherlock stared at his back, pleased to see how the fabric of the tee-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. He shook his head violently.

 _What the hell was going on?!_ Nothing he had observed about John pointed to him being mechanically minded. He would never have guessed (well, eventually he would've, once he had more data) that John knew anything about motorcycles, mechanics, clutch cables, or even ball wrenches! Once again, John Watson astonished him. Why was it so difficult to get a read on this boy?! He had seemed so simple a puzzle that first day, and yet obviously there were still pieces to fit in. Hell, some of the puzzle pieces were still missing! Why was John so secretive about his past? What had he to hide? He got so touchy whenever Sherlock asked questions, even when they were entirely innocent. Sherlock tried to be considerate; he knew he had to tread carefully after the Chemistry class debacle. John thought he was totally distracted by the mystery at hand but who could forget what he’d seen? - All those scars…..

He spun quickly to stare at a slide as John came back over, carrying a couple wrenches' as well as a can of oil. How did he know which oil to use? Sherlock had at least twenty varieties! No. Manners be damned, he had to have an answer. He watched out of the corner of his eye as John sat down next to the bike and arranged all the items in a neat row beside him. As he started tinkering with the cable Sherlock said, trying to sound casual "Smart, you knowing that the... Clutch cable... I don't know why I didn't pick that up..." John hummed contentedly, still tweaking at the machinery.

“So, uh, where’d you pick up that little uh… _tidbit_?” Sherlock over-enunciated the last word, feeling incredibly awkward. It was so obnoxious, when you cared about people’s feelings. If it were anyone else he could have asked straight out, ‘Where did you learn about motorcycles?’ and not cared if they were offended or touchy. But John… He wanted John to stay around, so he had to be careful. John paused a moment, clearly thinking hard. 

John considered. He had to be careful here. He wanted to tell the truth, but not reveal the whole picture... "I used to work in a garage. When we lived in London." Sherlock stared at John, who steadfastly refused to meet his eyes. John was telling the truth, but there was something... 

"Nice job to land, the way England's economy is right now." he said it, still totally calm and casual, but hunting for answers nevertheless. John nodded, still speaking carefully. "Yeah, my da got it for me, a friend of his-" he hesitated, and Sherlock’s eyes flickered as John hitched his shoulder unconsciously- “a friend of his owned a garage, took me on as a sort of apprentice."

"Very kind of him."

"Yes." John was earnest. "It was kind. Best job I ever had."

Sherlock watched as "that look", the sad, weary one that worried him so much, appeared on Johns face. He asked, gently "So why'd you leave it?" 

John stiffened slightly, gripping the wrench tighter and wiping his face clean of emotion. A poker face. "Well, we moved here. Like you said, England's depressed as anything right now, so Da brought us here - land of opportunity!" he smiled broadly, still not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. _God, he's a terrible liar_ , Sherlock thought. But he didn't push the issue. Instead they sat in companionable silence, John meddling with the bike, Sherlock watching in fascination, enjoying the play of muscle under the t-shirt. Eventually, he turned back to his microscope, and they sat like that for a long time, content in each other’s company. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Both boys jumped some time later when a brisk _tap-tap_ was heard on the door. An elderly lady stuck her head in, smiling brightly. "Hoo-hoo! I've brought you some tea!" 

Sherlock ignored the woman, but John scrambled to his feet, hurriedly wiping his greasy hands on a rag. He held the door open as the woman brought in a tray laden with tea and food. She set it down on the nearest work table saying cheerily "There you are then! I must say you two 'ave been very quiet down here. I can't remember the last time we didn't hear at least one explosion on a Saturday morning.” John chuckled, that really didn't surprise him. From some of the chemicals and equipment he'd seen laying around, he imagined Sherlock could make a pretty big bang if he wanted to. "Thank you very much for this Miss... Uh..." he threw an expectant glance at Sherlock who sighed poutily and turned round on his stool. They were talking too much to ignore anyway. "John this is Mrs. Hudson, our housekeeper. Mrs. Hudson this is John Watson my-"

"Friend." John cut in quickly, worried what Sherlock would say. "I'm his friend. From school." Sherlock shot him an amused look while Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands. 

“Oh how lovely! You know, you're the first person Sherlock’s ever brought home! And to find out you're a "friend" - so quaint what the children call it these days- is absolutely thrilling!" John opened his mouth, horrified at the direction the conversation was taking. He wanted to interrupt but Mrs. Hudson was going full force, talking now to Sherlock. "Your mother will be pleased! You know we've worried about you for quite some time. Always said you needed a grounding influence. And he looks like a good, sensible sort of fellow!" Sherlock was fighting back tears of silent laughter as he watched johns face turn from pink to red to purple. He was looking not at all sensible with his mouth open wide, and a smudge of grease across his nose. Mrs. Hudson babbled on, oblivious to the purple faced boy before her. “Well my dear, you simply must meet his mother! Oh and Mycroft's just gotten home as well! You two are coming up and having a proper tea with the family." She bent her frail frame and snatched up the tea tray, staring down a now outraged Sherlock. "Come along then! I expect you in the family room in two minutes Sherlock. Two. Pip-pip!" and with that she trotted out, totally unaware of the panic she had left in her wake. 

John made a mad dash for his jumper, yanking it on and trying desperately to tame his hair. Sherlock stomped around the lab slamming drawers and throwing papers. "I don't WANT to have tea with Mycroft!" He roared, sounding more like a petulant toddler than a genius.

"Look here Sherlock," said John desperately "She doesn't think that we're- I mean that we- that- you and I -" Sherlock cut him off, snapping "Of COURSE she does John! I've always been open with my family about my preferences; they’ve been dying for me to “bring someone home”. And any way that old bat sees love schemes everywhere. It took us three years to convince her Anthea was Mycroft's secretary and not his mistress!" The mention of Sherlock’s brother brought another fear to the forefront. "Sherlock, your brother, what's he like? I know he's big in government, but is he I dunno... a big general or something?" 

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Good god no, I can’t imagine Mycroft on the battlefield, he's far too lazy. No, John. My brother is, or soon will be - for all intents and purposes- the British government. Some rivals managed to get him sent here in a vain attempt to nip his rise to power, but that rather backfired. As he now has several fingers in the American pie as well as the British."

Sherlock sighed, running his hand through his ebony curls. "We'd better go. Once Hudson gets an idea there's no turning her from it." John tugged on the bottom of his jumper and nodded, turning to head out the side door. Suddenly, a thin hand wrapped around his wrist, and yanked him back so he was flush against Sherlock's chest, staring into shifting grey eyes. He blushed, feeling a mess of emotion rise within. "What on-" he broke off as Sherlock smirked and rubbed a thumb across the shorter boy’s nose, wiping away the streak of grease. "Can't have you showing a greasy face to Mummy. Hudson would not be pleased." John stared up silently, still overwhelmed by the sudden proximity to that cupids bow mouth he spent so much of his time fantasizing about. Suddenly Sherlock spun him around and dragged him towards the door. "Come on John, let’s not keep them waiting, I know they'll be dying to meet my new " _friend_ ". 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John was absolutely terrified as he was dragged through the Holmes residence. The place was absolutely enormous, and positively breathed power. If Sherlock’s family was anything like their house, John could be black bagged to Southeast Asia for the most minor slip up. He was glad when they reached the Family Room. It was a simple, homey affair, not nearly as domineering as the rest of the house. While Sherlock sprawled himself casually across a sofa, John chose a large armchair next to it and sat down gingerly. He glanced around, cataloguing escape routes. “For God’s sake John, no need to be so jumpy. I promise I won’t let them eat you.” Sherlock smirked at him, and rolled his eyes when John just grimaced and shifted uncomfortably. 

“I just can’t believe they think we’re, y’know, a…. _thing_ …” 

“Why not John? I mean, how else would you describe us?”

John was affronted. “FRIENDS. We’re friends.”

Sherlock snorted. “Friends don’t snog, Johnny Boy.”

“We did _not snog_! There wasn’t even a ‘we’! _You_ kissed _me_ , remember? Once. ”

Sherlock raised a pale finger “Aye, but there’s the rub John. You. Let. Me.”

That perfect blush he loved so much crawled up John’s neck, and he rubbed at it compulsively. “Maybe, but I thought we’d established that it would not happen again _Sherlock_.”

“Did we?” he asked vaguely, staring at picture on the wall. “I don’t recall…” That had John spluttering and ready to punch Sherlock then and there, but at that moment Mrs. Hudson came in with a new tray. She smiled when she saw the two boys waiting. “Oh good! Your mother and Mycroft will be down in a moment dear. I must say, I had a much easier time convincing Mycroft to join us than I thought I would! He must be very excited you’ve finally found someone, Sherlock.” Sherlock frowned. “He just wants to be nosy. Don’t put the cakes anywhere near him Mrs. Hudson or none of us will get any.” She tsked at him, but there was no real reprimand in it. Turning, she finally noticed the fact that John was hunched in his chair, arms folded, burning a hole in Sherlock’s forehead with his eyes. “Oh dear, not a lover’s quarrel already I hope?” She asked, still cheerful. 

“WE’RE NOT -”

“Not fighting Mrs. Hudson, thank you no.” Sherlock interrupted John quickly, smiling a dazzling smile. “Johnny’s just a little nervous about meeting Mummy and Mycroft.” She cooed and reassured John, petting his hair and straightening his collar for him. John responded politely enough, but never took his burning gaze from Sherlock’s amused one. _I’ll get you for this you stupid, smug little bastard_. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as though he could hear John’s thoughts, and said without turning round “Hello Mycroft, how’s Britain’s fattest? Oops-” He turned to glare at the ginger-haired man who stood in the doorway. “I meant finest.”

“Must you be so juvenile Sherlock? You know Mummy doesn’t approve.” The man John assumed was Mycroft stepped into the room, eyes flicking between John and Sherlock. He was fairly tall, wearing a well-cut black suit with a red tie and for some reason held an umbrella in his left hand.

“Mummy doesn’t approve of listening at doors either, and yet here you are.”

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow and settled himself primly in a straight backed chair across the coffee table from the two boys. “In case you’ve forgotten, Brother dear, I listen at doors and hide in shadows for a living.” Sherlock snorted once more and rolled to sit up, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands under his chin. "You keep gaining weight you won’t be sneaking around much longer."

John listened bemusedly as the two brothers sniped at each other. They sounded so.... normal. Not like two of Britain’s most brilliant minds, but like young brothers bickering with an age old pettiness. John smiled, it was nice.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Holmes came down. All the boys rose as she entered the room, creating an almost regal atmosphere – the Matriarch had arrived. She shook Johns hand with a surprisingly strong grip, looking him straight in the eye. She had the same piercing eyes as Sherlock, eyes that seemed to eternally shift color. He could tell he was being analyzed, peered into, the same way Sherlock had done the day they had first met. “It’s so lovely to meet you Mr. Watson, I’ve heard so much about you.” He grinned back, glad to hear sincerity in her voice. “Thank you Mrs. Holmes, it’s lovely to meet you as well. Though I’m afraid I’ve heard very little of you.” She giggled, a charming natural sound, and sat with the same royal bearing. “That doesn’t surprise me; Sherlock is rather tight-lipped when it comes to personal matters. In fact I’m rather surprised he’s introduced you to us.” She shifted her piercing gaze to her younger son, saying “But I hope we’ll be seeing much more of you.” She raised a thin dark eyebrow at Sherlock, who answered the unspoken question with a tiny nod. John had not noticed the silent conversation, being too busy fighting Mrs. Hudson, who was trying to force an inordinate amount of cakes on him.

The Tea was a success, John remained relaxed despite the fact he could feel three sets of eyes analyzing his every word and movement. Mrs. Holmes was a charming and witty woman, unspeakably sweet and kind. She talked easily with John on many subjects, and managed to steer around any awkward topics, such as his abusive father, his homosexual sister, or his as yet undefined relationship with her son. Mycroft didn’t say much, participating politely, but preferring to flip through a small notebook and watch John and Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

Eventually the party broke up, Mrs. Holmes returned to her office, saying she had a thesis due at the end of the month. “I’m one board revue away from my doctorate.” She said happily/

“Congratulations! What area will your doctorate be in?” John was impressed that a woman was getting a doctorate; they were so constrained in today’s society. She laughed freely, “Oh, thank you, but after the third one it’s stops being such a thrill. This one is rather nice though, it’s in quantum mechanics. It’s the newest and I thought I ought to keep up with the times.” She floated off with a grin, sending a warning glare at Mycroft as she did. He nodded curtly at her, remaining in the foyer as Sherlock helped Mrs. Hudson carry the tea things into the kitchen. John wandered around the family room, admiring the art and photographs scattered around the room.

He heard a dry cough, and turned to see Mycroft watching him. Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor twice, an obvious demand to come forth. John obeyed, walking over to him curiously, but cautiously. He had to admit that Mycroft intimidated him. He had a feeling the cold, precise demeanor hid a very dangerous man. He stopped in front of Sherlock’s brother, head held high, refusing to cower before a man who clearly expected him to. Mycroft spoke “I’ll not mince words as Sherlock may be back any minute. How much?”

John blinked, “s-sorry?”

Mycroft huffed impatiently “How much do you want? To leave Sherlock alone?”

“I beg your pardon?” John caught on to Mycroft’s meaning, and the older man was surprised to see the boy looked affronted. 

“Well, clearly you don’t want political connections, so you must be after Sherlock’s money; why else would you befriend him?”

“Because I _like_ him!” _You fat ugly git_. 

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, and his nose twitched irritably. “You ‘like’ him? Might I ask the context of this “like”? Is this a mere adolescent friendship, a boy hood crush, or should I expect a wedding invitation in the future?”

“No.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. John glared at him defiantly. “You may not enquire. That is between Sherlock and I. Frankly; I don’t see how it is any of your business.” He turned to go to the kitchen, but a surprisingly strong hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. John turned back blazing eyes meeting frigid ones. “It is my business, Mr. Watson, because he is my brother. I know about you, John Hamish Watson. Hamish, named after an abusive alcoholic father with a particularly shadowy past. One too easily dug up I’m afraid.” He allowed John to jerk his hand away, snarling “Does the name ‘James Graham’ ring a bell?”

His lip curled as John flinched and turned white. “I thought so. My brother doesn’t know about that little escapade does he? No, you’ve been very careful to hide that. Very careful indeed. Well I’ll have you know _John Hamish Watson_ , that I will never allow harm to come to my little brother, and I am willing to eliminate anything that presents even the slightest threat to his safety. I will not let your damaged family bring harm to Sherlock. What happened to James will not happen to him.” They were now nose to nose, John shaking with rage, and an emotion Mycroft couldn’t identify.

When he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm and controlled. “You. Daft. Ass.”

Mycroft blinked, taking a step back from the now livid teenager. John seemed to have grown a foot, all the sweetness and fear gone from his eyes, replaced by cold rage. “Do you honestly believe I would ever allow that to happen again? Truly? Then you’re even thicker than you seem. I swore I would never allow that to happen again. I stand by my word. I would die before allowing something like that to happen to anyone, and I would die a thousand times for Sherlock. You have no right to question me, or your brother, and if you threaten me again I will not only punch you, I’ll have a word with your mother. I doubt she’d appreciate your behavior.” He looked Mycroft up and down with a scathing glance, not caring that his speech had not seemed to have shaken Mycroft in the least. “Now piss off.” And with that, John turned on his heel and went into the kitchen.

Mycroft stood still for a moment, and then allowed a small smile to appear on his face. “So that’s why Sherlock likes him.” He shrugged, twirling his umbrella. Best to leave them alone for a while. He’d keep an eye out, but it seemed time to retire to the shadows once more. He went up the stairs towards his office.

John stomped through the kitchen, straight past where Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were washing the dishes. Both heads turned to follow him as he slammed through the door to the outside. They scuttled to the open door to watch John striding across the lawn and going into Sherlock’s "shed". He appeared a moment later with his bicycle. Mrs. Hudson simply said "Oh dear..." and watched interestedly as Sherlock sprinted after him. John was pushing off just as Sherlock leapt in front of him, latching onto the handle bars of his bike. "Jesus Sherlock! Are trying kill me?!"

"What did he say to you?"

"Nothing, nothing was said. Should there have been?"

"Don't play dumb John, you were perfectly happy before I left you alone with the nosiest git on the planet, and now you're about to leave without a word AND without agreeing on plans for the blood heist-"

"God, don't call it that, you're so melodramatic somti-"

"AND SO, I ask again, what did he say to you?"

John sighed, resigned to telling yet another half-truth. “He tried to buy me off. Pay me to leave you alone."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow - "How much did he offer?"

"We never got around to figures."

Sherlock seemed incredulous "You really wouldn't take a bribe?"

"NO! Of course not, how could you even ask that? How could you possibly imagine I would drop someone I care about just for a pile of cash?!"

A small smile appeared on the geniuses face. "You care about me."

"Well of course I do you idiot." John was blushing again - always a good sign for Sherlock. "I already said we're friends- _oh shut it_!" he blushed even redder at the gloating chuckle that rose from the other boy.

Sherlock tugged on his handle bars, forcing him to turn the bike around and head back into the 'shed'. "Well come along _Friend_ , we've got plans to make. Oh and in future," he brushed back his wild curls, giving John his best wolfs grin "consider my brothers offers John. We could have split the money, if you'd have been quicker we'd be millionaires."

It was John's turn to snort. "I doubt he'd have paid me that much just for your sorry ass." but he went back inside amiably, heading back to finish on the Hound, and listen to whatever ridiculous plan Sherlock had cooked up.

Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The Disaster was averted for now. He shot a dark look up at Mycroft's office window. Was the bastard trying to scare away the best thing in his life?! _Probably_. He snorted. Mycroft would do it just for spite. He must have really pushed John’s buttons, to get such a reaction from the usually controlled boy. _Wonder what else he said?_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several hours later, the Hound rumbled quietly into the Bart Mieu Hospital parking lot. Sherlock parked carefully behind a row of bushes, effectively blocking it from the view of the hospital. There was deafening silence as the motor died. John clung to Sherlock, his arms wrapped tightly around the Greasers waist, forehead planted against his back _God, this was insane_. His blood was buzzing in his veins, and he fought to calm his nervous panting. Sherlock turned carefully, holding Johns arms in place, clearly enjoying the closeness. John was too nervous to care about it at the moment, his eye flying open as cold hands cupped his face. Baby blue eyes stared into stormy grey, neither blinking as a deep baritone rumbled “You ready John?”

He took another calming breath and nodded, the hands on his face grounding him in the moment. “Remember,” Sherlock cautioned “I can give you fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to get in, but only five to get out.” John nodded again, a determination blooming in his chest. _Time for an adventure_. “Ready when you are, Sherlock.” Sherlock grinned his wolfs grin down at him. He had his greaser guise on once more – hair greased back, allowing a few loose curls to brush artfully across his forehead. He had on blue Jeans, a tight black tee-shirt, and the leather Jacket with the collar flipped up. John would never willingly admit how absolutely obsessed he was with that Jacket. It made Sherlock look so wild and dangerous – but now was not the time. They had some blood to steal.

They both clambered off the bike, Sherlock very unhappy to lose the warm arms around his thin waist. “Synchronize watches.” He barked, holding up the pocket watch he always kept on him. John compared his wrist watch and nodded grimly. Sherlock grinned; he was so adorable when he was serious! “Well,” He growled “Show time.” With that he plunged down, giving a swift kiss to shocked lips, and then sprinting towards the front of the building. John stood motionless for a moment, watching with glazed eyes as Sherlock burst through the front doors roaring “WHERE IS THAT THIEF?! I’LL RIP HIM FROM STEM TO STERN!” Then he shook himself and swore, taking off running around the side the building to where he knew the side door lay. He pushed the door open carefully, listening and hearing Sherlock’s indistinct shouting echoing in the halls.

He ran up the stairs, thighs burning as he reached the fifth floor. He opened the door to the hall cautiously then took a moment to right himself, straightening his jumper and smoothing his hair. He walked briskly down the hall, doing an exaggerated double take as he passed the medical lab. “Molly?! What on earth are you doing here?”

The little red-head was sitting, as Sherlock had said she would be, at a table in the lab, studying what looked like notes from Chemistry. She smiled brightly as John stepped into the lab. “Johnny! Wow, hi! M-my dad works here, he has the late shift on Saturdays, so I stay here and study.” He grinned at her, feeling guilty for the barrage of lies he was about to tell. “I was just here visiting the boy who stole Sherlock’s bike you know...” 

“Henry?” Molly supplied the name.

“Yes! Henry! Good chap, I felt terribly sorry for him so I thought I’d just pop round and check in on him. Unconscious when I went in I’m afraid.” 

S he nodded sympathetically. “Yes, they put him under a heavy sedative, poor thing; he was raving like a madman when they brought him in."

“Yeah, y’know, I have a question. I was going to ask a doctor, but I suppose I just ask you – you probably know everything there is to know about this place.”

Molly blushed “Well, not everything...”

“But a good bit yeah? Come on now, don’t sell yourself short.Se hemmed and hawed a bit more before finally admitting she knew quite a lot. John glanced nervously at the clock, - _only nine minutes left._ “Well my question is this. The chart by the bed had all sorts of notes about Henry’s blood type and the chemical balances in his blood. What I want to know is how they could possibly know all that just from a syringe full of blood?!”

“Oh well, it’s not just a syringe full, Johnny! The doctors take several tubes of blood for testing when a new patient is brought in.”

“But how can they preserve it? Doesn’t it go bad?”

She giggled “No, no! We keep it refrigerated. Here, I’ll show you.” She trotted over to a refrigerator and opened it to reveal rows upon rows of blood filled and sealed test tubes. “Blimey!” John cried, hamming up the British accent. “How can you tell all those apart?” She plunged into an explanation of their complex filing and numbering system, With John shifting nervously, eyes darting to the clock. _only three minutes_ “Betcha can’t find Henry’s.” He blurted. She huffed indignantly, “of course I can! There right, umm.... let’s see, Basker, Basker... H. Basker... AH! There!” She pointed triumphantly to a row of six blood filled tubes. John threw up his hands in defeat. “Well you’ve proved me wrong! You really are something, Molly.” She was about to respond when a sound of shouting filled the hall. 

“WHERE IS THAT FILTHY BIKE-SMASHING BASTARD?!!!” They turned to the door just in time to see Sherlock go sprinting by, followed by a parade of security, nurses, and what appeared to be every doctor in the hospital. He winked and let out an exhilarated laugh as he passed by and molly ran to the door to look after the chase. John used the moment to grab three of the vials and stuff them in his jacket pocket before slamming the refrigerator door loudly. Molly turned to see him walking towards the door quickly. “Well, that was Sherlock, must have had a breakdown. Poor fellow, he really loves that bike.” He shook his head sorrowfully then glanced at his watch _five minutes and counting_. Molly nodded solemnly, blushing a little. “He is a little odd, but sooo handsome. I mean, you spend time with him, so you know him better than I do, but I gotta say he is an absolute Dreamboat.” John nodded, thinking of flipped up collars and dangerous smiles “Isn’t he just? – I MEAN –“He stammered for a moment “T-that’s what all the girls say about him. That he’s a d-dream uh dreamboat.” He shrugged, trying to sound uncaring “Of course, he’s an absolute nutter, so who cares what he looks like.” Molly blushed, and nodded. _Ahh, so John wasn’t the only one with an infatuation..._

He looked again at his watch _three minutes_ SHIT. “Well, I’d better be off, Mum expects me home in twenty minutes.” 

Molly nodded, flapping her hands. “Oh yes, go, I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble!” He smiled at her warmly and then strode briskly to the exit. He felt a pang of guilt as he dashed down the stairs. She really was a sweet kid, and she’d probably get in trouble when the theft was discovered. But no, Sherlock had promised they’d come clean as soon as the tests were done.

He burst out of the side door, and ran to where the Hound was parked, hearing police sirens in the distance. He pulled the blood out of his pocket and shoved it into a cooler they had brought with them. He turned back to the building as the sirens grew louder and sprinted through the front doors as a car pulled up in front of the steps. He entered the lobby at the same time Sherlock did. And, seeing the subtle nod, tackled him to the ground, mock wrestling with him as Neil Lestrade stomped in. “John? He said surprised “What are you doing here?”

“I am – urgh – so sorry Detective – Ouch!” He hollered as Sherlock gave him a more- than-playful nip in the arm, and punched him in the side in retaliation. He shoved Sherlock’s face into the floor, puffing as he sat on the taller boy’s arms. “I told Sherlock.... Hah... to come. I thought he should make up, and ask why Henry’d stolen his bike. But... hoo, ‘scuse me. He seems to have mistaken my meaning.” Neil watched his efforts to subdue Sherlock with an amused face. “Yes, John, I’d say he did.” John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s throat and pulled him to his feet, ignoring the gasping and retching. “I’ll just get him home then, shall I?” Neil watched him thoughtfully for a minute, and then nodded exasperatedly. “Yes, yes, get him out of here. And Sherlock, I don’t want to see you back here again, understand.” Sherlock wheezed in response still fighting as John dragged him out the door. 

They pulled apart on the steps, and stared at each other, panting. Suddenly, they burst out laughing. “That was absolutely insane!!” 

“Did you get it?” Sherlock asked, still wheezing and clutching his throat. _He’d said to make it convincing..._

“Of course I did.” John nodded towards where the Hound was hidden “Everything went perfectly. Just the way you said it would.”

The doors behind them began to open, and Sherlock yanked at John’s wrist. They sprinted around the corner, giggling like children. They suddenly heard the sirens going again, and Sherlock shoved John against the brick wall, spreading out his leather coat in an effort to shield them both. There was a thrilled silence as they waited for the police cars to pass. They slowly died away, leaving only the panting breaths and the quiet chuckles as the two stared into each other’s eyes. They were so close their breaths were mingling; Sherlock still pressing up against John, in what he suddenly realized was a very intimate way. There was no time to think, there was no time to breathe, everything seemed to freeze as they reached for each other and kissed as though the world was coming to an end. It was kiss full of joy and victory, adrenaline and a little fear. It was rough and smooth, harsh and sweet all at the same time. And it seemed to last an eternity. But slowly, John’s mind engaged once more and he realized what he was doing, who he was kissing. He pulled back gasping “Sherlock – we can’t...”

Sherlock ignored him, shoving him forcefully against the brick once more and kissing him again. He forced John’s lips apart with his own and suddenly everything seemed to melt. John didn’t care who or what could see them. Nothing existed accept lips and tongues and Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. When finally broke apart, John’s cheeks were red, and Sherlock’s were spotted with a hectic pink. His eyes were storming with emotions as he leaned in once more, slowly, giving John time to run. When he didn’t, Sherlock placed a chaste, sweet, burning kiss on his lips, before wrapping him in his arms and holding him. John stayed locked in his arms, breathing in the scent of Mint, leather, Motorcycle oil and Sherlock. It was a perfect moment, and no matter what came next, he would not have given it back for the world. 

Finally they pulled apart, Sherlock not taking his eyes from John’s as he said “We’d better get you home.” John simply nodded, and allowed Sherlock to lead him back to the motorcycle. 

He wrapped his arms once more around Sherlock’s waist, and pressed his chest firmly against the greasers back. His nose, rested at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, drinking in the scent of him. He didn’t remove his arms from around Sherlock’s waist until they pulled in front of his house, and then he was very loathe to do so. He got off the bike and turned to look at Sherlock, wanting to say goodbye. But the words stuck in his throat. So he said nothing, merely nodding at the beautiful, wonderful boy he was doomed to love. Sherlock seemed to understand and nodded as well, revving his engine and driving away as quickly as possible, never looking back.

John walked slowly to the front door, lost in his own thoughts. He didn’t notice anything off until he walked straight into a tall mass that smelled like cheap cigarettes and bourbon. A hand closed round his neck with a vice-like grip, and he gasped for air.

A cold, frighteningly slurred voice asked “Well Johnny, you wanna tell me who it was you had your arms around just now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I did a thing. 
> 
> heheh, soo there you go, Reactions? too fast? too slow? Whatever, you'll take what I give you, and you will LIKE IT. I'm sorry, I am very tired.
> 
> Thanks again to anyone who has actually bothered to read this heinous fic. Thankyou for the kudos, the bookmarks and the comments that make me want to bathe in chocolate. Wait what? never mind, ignore me.
> 
> Side note: The motorcycle stuff is total bullshit. I don't think a ball wrench is even a thing. haaahaha WHO CARES?!! NOT ME!! Also, stealing from a hospital is extremely illegal, especially stealing bodily fluids/personal information. It is also really difficult to do. I made it easier for the boys, because security was probably not as tight in the fifties, plus, this ain't Mission Impossible.
> 
> The party is just getting started so don't ditch us yet. I think that's everything. CIAO BABY!


	8. Halcyon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and Stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here I am, ahead of schedule cause - WHO NEEDS SCHEDULES?! Also, because we realized the chapter we planned should be two, not one. Soooo A very merry unbirthday to you! It's rather short, because of choppiness, but I just couldn't stand the suspense! We have so much planned, and it's just taking forever!!!! But I hope you guys like it - it's really fluffy, which is a nice change. Jealous John is friggin adibibibble (Pronounced _A- dib-bib-bibble_ )  
> okey- dokey, moving on.  
> This Chapter is once again dedicated to MarketSalami, because she WOULD NOT LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. Love ya darlin', But this update is mainly to get you off my ass. ^_~
> 
> Just a note: commenting saying "More please" or " update soon!" is not a bad thing. Asking me for the next chapter at least twice a day, every day and STEALING MY PHONE TO TRY AND READ IT BEFORE IT'S FINISHED is a bad thing. <3 But I still love you because you're beautiful and absolutely insane. kay - on with show  
> A million billion thanks to my cowriter Mr_Dr_Professor_PhD, who legitimately wrote part of this chapter. That's right, I let someone else touch my baby. After they had a full body scrub, bathed in disinfectant, and signed a waiver accepting their death by my hand if they screwed anything up. SO I'M PROTECTIVE - SUE. ME.
> 
> Not Britpik'd and I own Zilch

“Well Johnny, You wanna tell me who it was you had your arms around just now?”

John’s heart seized, and as he swallowed he felt it hit the bottom of his stomach. His father loosened his grip on John’s throat, but still kept him pinned to the door – there would definitely be bruises tomorrow.

He tensed, mind spinning as he tried think of an excuse, an explanation that would prevent broken limbs and police reports. He rubbed his shoulder and avoided his father’s glare, which seemed to drill a hole straight through him. He was growing impatient. “Well, John? Are you going to answer? Or do you need some _motivation_?” John cringed at the malice dripping from his father’s words. _Oh if Sherlock could see you now,_ a voice sneered in his head _brave little Johnny cowering like a kicked dog._ He would be repulsed, utterly disgusted by such weakness. That reminded him though, he was seeing Sherlock again tomorrow, he couldn’t show up covered in bruises. _A story QUICK, a story!_ A lie appeared inside his brain, and he spat it out, praying his dad was drunk enough to buy it.

“That was a boy in my class. Sherlock Holmes. He needed a bit of help with chemistry.” He tried not to grin at the idea of Sherlock needing help with Chemistry. His father’s eyes were narrowed, waiting to catch John in a lie. “He, erm, offered to pay me if I tutored him this afternoon. It- well, it went on a bit later than intended, s-so he gave me a lift home. He drives like a maniac s-so I h-had to hold on. Didn’t want t-to fall off.” Hamish let him go, but still watched him suspiciously. “Study session ran pretty damn late John.”

“H-he’s pretty damn thick.” Hamish didn’t look amused. “I won’t be out this late again, I - I promise.” He looked into his father’s eyes with anxiety. It felt like years before his father responded at last. He socked John directly in his good shoulder, slamming him back against the door. “You see that you don’t boy. If it happens again, you’ll regret it. Right, get to your room and get some goddamned sleep.” John went in the direction of his room. “Next time you get a ride home, you’d better be in a seat of your own. You’ll look less like an arse bandit.” His father chuckled to himself, thinking himself witty.

John felt a flare of resentment as he scurried to his room, closing the door and locking it. He dumped his bag on the floor and stood quivering in the middle of his room, thoughts flying. _What am I going to do? I can’t tell Sherlock; he’s got plenty of reasons to have it out for my dad. Can’t have him doing something stupid._ Finally, he shook his head and slowly got ready for bed. He froze in the middle of taking off his jumper. _It can’t happen again. Not here. Not with Sherlock._

Mycroft’s words echoed in his ear. _“What happened to James will not happen to him."_ John pulled the jumper off, sighing. Mycroft was right. Sherlock would be in danger if their relationship progressed much more. If his father found out about them… _Sherlock cannot get hurt._ John didn’t know what to do. Today had been fantastic; he had never felt so alive and free. But he could never allow what he had with Sherlock to be seen. He had to walk quite a tightrope now. _How can I protect him, but not hurt him? How can I keep him safe, without making him hate me?_ A few tears fell down his cheeks as he thought of James. God, his soul still ached even after all this time. He couldn’t bear to feel that pain again. 

_Sherlock will not be hurt._ John was determined. _No matter what it takes._ He would do whatever he had to, to keep his fantastic, brilliant greaser safe. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John woke up early the next morning. The tears he had shed the previous night, now dry, stained and mottled his cheeks. He went into the bathroom and stumbled into the shower. _Analyze blood. Report evidence to Neil. Figure out where the drug came from. Be home before sundown._ John grinned wryly. His schedule was certainly more interesting since Sherlock came around. He got out of the shower, and grimaced as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. A ring of black and purple bruises decorated his throat, like some macabre necklace. Sherlock would most certainly notice this.

Well, it would be a good excuse to keep him from snogging John again. But, that snogging had been so nice... John might let the snogging happen again, but only when he was certain the coast was clear. He could indulge himself, as long his father didn’t find out. But there might come a point when it would be too risky, when he’d have to break It off altogether. _Well, I suppose that fat arse Mycroft will be getting what he wants._

John finished brushing his teeth and combing his hair, and went on his way to deliver the Sunday paper. On his route, his thoughts turned once more Sherlock. He kept telling himself not to think of him, but God, he _wanted_ to. The black curls, giving him a wild, devil may care look. The soft creaking of the stiff black leather jacket. His mad workshop full of machines, oil and chemicals. His home, the most cozy and welcoming place John had ever known. The smell of Sherlock…

Sherlock had given him a wonderful gift. The gift of a single day of honesty. The kind of freedom that came with being honest was absolutely intoxicating. Both boys had surrendered the lie they told the world, and wished, just for a moment, that they never had to return to it. But was that day such a good thing? In the end, it would simply make going back to real life that much more miserable, that much more impossible.

John sighed with longing at this thought as he tossed another paper onto a driveway. _Shit,_ he thought. _Wrong house._ He went and grabbed the paper, and returned to his bike. He shrugged off the thoughts of Sherlock, focusing on his route. At least his jobs could take his mind off of things. No wonder he spent half of his time working.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John returned home to find his father snoring on the couch, Harry asleep in her room, and his mother sitting at the table in the kitchen. she looked tired and worn, like she’d aged a hundred years in a single night. He approached and sat at the table across from her. “What’s going on, Mum?” 

His mother sighed, and looked at him. “I had to collect Harry from the Police Station last night. She went out to a party, though she _told_ me she’d be studying with a friend and sleeping over. Next thing I know, a police officer calls from the station and says I have to go and pick her up, because she was found intoxicated, trying to walk home.” Her face was a twisted mask, and she spoke in almost a whisper. 

“Is she alright?” 

“She will be, until she wakes up. I have a feeling she’s going to be not a little grumpy today. I just…” she trailed off and stared off in the distance for a moment. “I don’t know, John. She could have been found by some man last night, or passed out in a ditch, or been hit by a car..... She needs to stop this. She has a problem.” 

John silently nodded. “I’ll try my best to keep an eye on her. She does the same for me constantly.” _More than she might know…_ After all, she had always accepted John and his desires.

John’s mother smiled tiredly. “Alright, John. Thank you.” She watched him with a knowing glint in her eye. “ Are you about to ask to go to Sherlock’s house again today?” 

John was surprised that his mother had guessed, but he nodded. “If that’s alright with you.” 

Her brow furrowed. “I overheard your discussion with your father last night. Please, John, for the love of God… Be careful. I love you. And you’re the only thing keeping this family on its feet.”

He shook his head. “You do more than your fair share as well. And it’s not as though we have real money troubles, is it? Da’s got a nice bundle tucked away. We’d be right as rain, if he had half a mind to share it.” His mother shuddered, looking stricken and John regretted his flippancy. He stood and went to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, and leaned her head against his chest. They stayed like that for what seemed an eternity, taking comfort from the only stable thing they had left in the world : each other.

But eventually, his mother pulled away flashing a weary grin. “You should get going. Tell the Holmes family I said hello. I’ll tell your father that you’re off at a different friend’s house, studying. He’s already suspicious, John, it wouldn’t do if he knew how in love with that boy you really are.”

John froze, shocked at how perceptive his mother was. He watched her with frightened eyes, but she simply smiled sweetly at him. He smiled back and kissed her on the cheek. “Love you, Mum!”

“Take an apple for the road! I may give my blessing, but I won’t have you starving yourself for him!”

What fantastic woman she was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock heard a knock on the “shed” door. “Come in, John,” he called irritably. “You’re ten minutes late.” John walked in to find Sherlock perched on a stool, studying something under a microscope. He was embarrassed (and delighted) to see that Sherlock was once again in an infernally tight button up. This one was a pale mint color, which offset his pale skin beautifully. Where did he get his clothes?! 

“Sorry, my mum had to talk to me about something. You get to work yet?” John skirted warily around Sherlocks table, not wanting to disturb the piles of papers and delicate instruments upon it..

Sherlock was curt, entirely focused on the task at hand. “I have his results for blood glucose levels, but I need a control.”

Sherlock reached over to a pack of strange strips, and grabbed John’s hand. “Need your finger. This will only hurt a bit.” John didn’t fight the strong grip, but watched him warily. Sherlock jabbed the sharp end into the tip of his finger, then pulled away, clinical as ever . “God, that smarts!” said John as he put the tip of his finger in his mouth. “Why couldn’t you have done it?”

“Too many caffeinated beverages in my system. I’ve pulled another four hour night.” He put a small slip of paper to the blood. “This is the strip indicator. It uses a few drops of blood to determine the level of glucose in the blood. Another perk of having a brother in government? Having the authority to use these toys as evidence.” Indicating a little box, he said, “These were given to me a few months ago, not stolen from his effects, so if we need to, Mycroft can attest to their authenticity as scientific tools.” John looked at the dried strip, and saw that it had changed colors. What was once a slight pink was now much more saturated, becoming a reddish color. 

“This is a good average, but it’s still a bit low. You should eat more, John.” He kept talking, ignoring Johns affronted look. “I’ll have Mrs. Hudson run some food out here soon. Anyway, here’s our thief’s blood strip.” Sherlock held up another slip of paper, and John could see a difference right away. His was red, but Henry’s blood test strip was almost a wine-colored purple, with a little bit of the original pink left in the corner for comparison. John was astounded. “How could it be that different?” 

“Lysergic acid diethylamide. Already said that once, do try to keep up.” Sherlock darted about, making notes and fiddling with different machines. “I knew it was there, but now I have proof! I can provide evidence of it’s existence and connection with high blood sugar.” 

John leaned against a table, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right, so we know he had it, but how did he get it?” 

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his palms together and pacing. “At first, I had no idea how he would get a hold of it. As we now know, his full name is Henry Basker. I didn’t realize his connection to the drugs, because I didn’t recognize the name Basker from the files I acquired. 

"Stole. " john corrected. Sherlock merely sniffed and continued. 

"But then, I had a chat with Mycroft. Once he stopped being an idiot about my taking his files, he told me that Henry’s parents are dead, and his guardian is a man named Stapleton. Then he all but forced me out of office, and made me swear to leave his safe alone – stupid really, he keeps other papers in six other locations, none of which are very secure – but nevertheless, I got what I needed. That Doctor Stapleton, Henry’s guardian, is an experimental psychiatric therapist at a government-partnered facility outside of town.” Sherlock stopped for a moment as he saw that John gaze was riveted on him, fascinated by what he had to say. _Usually they tune out of my explanation after five seconds, but John is still listening. Fascinating, perfect boy. I wonder if he’ll let me kiss him again. Best not to push my luck just yet._ Sherlock realized he’d stopped talking as John raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if to say “go on.”

Clearing his throat, he continued. “So of course, that’s Henry’s source. Whether he stole the substance or was given it remains to be seen. So our next step is naturally to go to the hospital and question Henry about how he got a hold of this drug. You’re coming with, to handle the annoying things.” 

John smirked " annoying things being Detective Lestrade and the head nurse, both of whom have banned you from the hospital?” 

Sherlock shrugged, grumbling “I’m not good at coaxing people.” John snorted at that, remembering multiple occasions when Sherlock managed to sweet talk his way out of homework or detention. Sherlock shot him a look “Not people like Lestrade. Usually I can beg people off with a simpered apology and a batted eyelash, but he’s not going to buy it. He’s stupid, but he’s not as thick as some.”

“Wow, I think you almost complimented someone.” Sherlock merely twitched his head irritably and watched him expectantly. "So you'll come?" 

"I already said I was in Sherlock, why would I back out now?" John was surprised to see Sherlock turn slightly pink. _Well that's new, Sherlock Holmes blushing._

"I thought it was likely you wouldn't want to, uh , be close for a while, considering the, hm, _events_ of last night." 

John shifted, tugging at his collar. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls, looking frustrated "Oh come on John! You aren't exactly hiding those bruises on your throat! Obviously your father was waiting for you when you got home. He saw you with me. And he... Oh God." John watched, shocked to see Sherlock burying his face in his hands. "I should have waited! I should have seen that you were alright. But there were.... so many emotions...clouded everything... I couldn't - wasn't thinking." He pulled himself together sharply, standing and rising to his full height, all traces of emotion gone. "I'm sorry John, I failed you. I won't let it happen again." 

John grinned at him, amazed at the emotion he seemed to be able to drag out of the usually stoic boy, and the dramatics. "Oh come off it, There was nothing you could have done." He chuckled as Sherlock looked at him, surprised and reproachful. "And anyway, it's not as though I've never taken a beating before. This ," He stroked the ring of bruises carefully, "Is a peck on the lips compared to some of the times he's gone off." He chuckled again. It really was adorable how concerned Sherlock was over a single bruise.

"Come on you git, I thought I heard something about Mrs. Hudson and tea?" John strode confidently out the door and towards the house, With Sherlock trailing after him. _What the hell was wrong with him?!_ Sherlock wondered. The boy had a vicious bruise around his neck, it looked like someone had almost strangled him, and he was laughing it off! _"It's not as though I've never taken a beating before."_ Sherlock growled under his breath, seeing red. He had to get John out of there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They sat in the kitchen, John drinking tea and chatting with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock nibbling reluctantly at a scone the housekeeper had forced on him. Finally, she tottered away to do some dusting, complaining about her joints all the way. "I'm getting too old for this boys, I ought to have retired five years ago!" 

"More like fifty." Sherlock said under his breath, quickly dropping the half eaten scone onto Johns plate. John eyed him reproachfully. "You really should eat more Sherlock, With the hours you keep, you need all the help you can get."

"Food is dull John. I want to get going on the case." 

John nodded and put down his mug. "Well you know the first thing you have to do is go to Detective Lestrade." 

Sherlock was indignant. "Why?!"

"Why? To keep him in the loop, that's why! It's _his_ case Sherlock. And besides, he banned you from the hospital. So the only way you're getting back in, is to do it with his blessing." 

"Not necessarily, we could sneak back in ,interview Henry when no one's around - " 

"And what if we get caught before you've asked all your questions?" John saw Sherlock was about to argue, so he cut him off quickly. "Look! You told me I was coming to deal with the annoying things, so here I am - dealing. That Head Nurse won't let you within five hundred meters of the place, _unless you have Lestrade's blessing._ " He sat back, crossing his arms and meeting Sherlock's glare with ease. "We go to Lestrade, or not at all." 

Sherlock stared at him a minute, as if trying to gauge how serious he was. Finally he sighed heavily, slumping forward onto the table. " _Fine._ " He growled. "We go to Lestrade." He stood, feeling very put upon. "Better get moving then, if we're going to Police headquarters _and_ the hospital. I'll just pull out the Hound - " 

"NO." John snapped, suddenly pale.

Sherlock was surprised. "No... What, exactly?" 

"No Hound... It.. um …. makes me nervous. Not very safe." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. He was lying. He loved the bike, he had _asked_ to ride it yesterday! so why this sudden change of heart? His eyes fell on the necklace of purple bruising. _Ah. Of course._ Daddy didn't like John being so close to another boy. Sherlock would have argued, would have said John’s old Man could burn in Hell; but those bruises were just too livid, and for all John denied it, they must hurt a lot. Instead of arguing, he gave in. "Alright, I'll call Lestrade - Greg, I mean." Using his first name felt so wrong. "His car just got out of shop, and he'll want in on this anyway." Sherlock continued, warming to the idea. "In fact, he can probably get us in much more easily than we could. Being a Detective's son has its advantages. Right. I 'll just call him shall I?" John nodded, looking extremely relieved. 

"Thanks Sherlock. I … Thanks."

Thin lips curled into a knowing smile. "Of course, John. Anything, for you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Greg’s car rumbled to a halt beside the police station. It was a stern, two-story brick building with an enormous American flag flying in the front yard. Like Sherlock, Greg looked entirely different outside of school. Gone were the t-shirts and ragged jeans. While his jacket was still present, it was ignored, thrown carelessly in the back seat. Instead he was wearing a blue polo tucked neatly into pressed pants, his normally scruffy haircut was combed, revealing a surprisingly military haircut. The shoes he stepped on the brake with were polished so often they shone. He nervously checked his hair in the rear view mirror before he hopped out of the car. The other two followed and almost tripped when he turned back abruptly, looking Sherlock in the eye.

“Alright, I’ll do the talking in here. I'm sure it's an enormous surprise to you , but some of the officers aren’t too fond of you. So keep your mouth shut and don't cause any trouble, or we'll be out on our ears before you so much as see my fathers door." With a threatening glare he marched in with posture of a soldier marching to headquarters. Sherlock swaggered behind him, smirking at the threat; and John took up the rear, praying Sherlock didn't do anything stupid.

John couldn’t help but keep glancing at Greg, watching him with a look of surprise and new appreciation. He realized that Sherlock had picked a good right-hand man. Greg was one who would understand Sherlock's greaser act. Both boys were tough, but neither were quite what they pretended to be. They were partners in crime, but Greg was more level- headed than Sherlock, and John doubted if he’d ever let any real harm be done. And of course, there were his sleuthing aspirations. Greg's love of the chase had allowed him to share something with Sherlock, and see another piece of him. But John doubted he had seen the parts of Sherlock that he had… 

A sudden spike of jealousy stabbed through John. _Had Greg seen Sherlock that way?_ Had he seen him tousle headed in button ups, spewing science speak and experimenting like a mad scientist? Or worse - John stiffened - had he seen Sherlocks face after he’d just been kissed? ….. Had they been in a relationship?! They could have been, they had so much in common, and Greg _was_ his right hand man. John stomped through the front door of the precinct, suspicions and scenarios spinning in his head. He followed Sherlock to a row of chairs lined against the wall and flomped down with a huff.

Greg walked to the main desk, which stood in the center of the lobby. Doors opened on either side to reveal several cubicles and workplaces behind them. The stairs were on their left, and a corridor leading to the lockup was to their right. An older lady stood behind the desk and smiled in recognition at Greg as he approached. Greg exchanged a few words with her while John watched him suspiciously. _Of course, if they_ had _been a couple, they must be well over now._ Sherlock wouldn't be courting him - _courting?!_ That was such a dead phrase, and yet what else could it be called? But the point was, that Sherlock would not mess with John if he had a relationship with Greg. He wouldn’t play with John like that. _Would he? He wouldn't. He might... But he wouldn't. But maybe…_

"For the love of God John, stop thinking. It's incredibly distracting." John jumped as Sherlock spoke into his ear, his lips barely an inch away. He shot a glance at Greg. Although not out of earshot, it was clear Greg couldn’t hear whispers from where he stood chatting.

" How can my thinking possibly be distracting?!" He hissed.

"Because you're not just thinking. You’re fidgeting, grumbling, and trying to burn a hole in Lestrade's back with your eyes."

John realized he hadn’t taken his eyes off Greg the entire time and looked away quickly. He was still wondering though. _Could it be? Were they ever in this same kind of... Thing?_

"Never." Sherlock said firmly.

"What?"

"Lestrade and I have never had anything but a professional, perhaps somewhat friendly relationship.”

“How’d you - ?”

“Oh please John it was obvious. But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that there has never been any form of physical or romantic relationship between us. And there never will be."

John shrugged grumpily, mad and embarrassed at being caught. Long, cool fingers shot out and gripped his chin, gently but firmly forcing John to look into Sherlock's crystalline eyes. "Not in a million years, John."

"Why not?" John breathed, surprised by Sherlock's intensity. He prayed no one was watching.

He was even more surprised when Sherlock's other hand came up to smooth the hair back from his forehead, tucking it gently into place. Sherlock stroked the blond hair, smiling fondly. "Because I have you."

A deep red blush seeped up Johns neck and across his forehead _What a sappy thing to say!_

Sherlock traced the blush, fingers chasing the heat across Johns cheek. His wolf’s grin spread as he realized that John had been jealous. Actually jealous! Over _Sherlock_ , the freak, the scary greaser who could count his friends on two hands. _He_ might start blushing. And giggling. And skipping down the halls. His eyes flicked to where Greg was approaching. _Thank God. Make note to be nice to Lestrade some time this week, he’s just saved you from looking like an utter fool._ He pulled back and stood, pulling John with him. "And anyway," Sherlock muttered "Lestrade's as straight as a two by four." John choked as Sherlock grinned and nodded for Greg to lead the way; keeping John close as they went up a flight of stairs.

At the top, they were stopped again by a pair uniformed officers, who glared at Sherlock suspiciously. Greg impatiently began to explain what he'd already told the lady at the front desk. As ordered, Sherlock stayed out of it. He was content to play with Johns hand, twisting and untwisting thin white fingers with strong tanned ones. He actually managed holding his hand for a minute before John smacked him away and shoved his own hands in his pockets. He ignored Sherlocks devilish smirk and asked “So why does Greg keep himself so… erm… soldier-like?” asked John. He couldn’t think of a better way of putting it.

“Soldier, indeed. His father, before joining the force, was in the infantry during the war. Neil was lucky, he only caught the tail end. But he still acquired all of the habits; back straight, uniform exact, speech polite, direct and to the point. Of course, a single father uses any method he can to raise his son, and the detective fell back on military training. He was always kind, but stern. Ruled with an iron rod."

"Then why on earth is his son in a gang?"

" Well, his father knows he’s not nearly the worst in the bunch, and he seems to think there’s more to me. He’s right, actually. Anyway, his father thought Greg could keep us Irregulars in line. An adorable idea, really. I just have others to do the illegal things and keep Greg out of it. We've been through some trouble, but we've always helped each other through. Greg’s always been my first mate.” John narrowed his eyes. “In gang matters, that is.”

“Guys!” John and Sherlock turned to look at Greg. “Finally, got your attention. C’mon, we’re headed in to see him.” The boys followed him down the hall , passing the officers, neither of whom looked too happy. They walked down the hall until they found the door with a sign tacked on reading: “N. LESTRADE”. Greg entered. “Hiya Pop!”

Neil looked up from some papers to the oddly respectable-looking boys in front of him , seeming totally unsurprised by the lack of leather and attitude. Well, Sherlock still had an attitude, but he always did. “Good morning, boys! What brings you three here today? Keeping out of trouble, I hope?” John wanted to grin, but he realized the question probably wasn’t a joke. He was with two motorcycle gang members. “Yes sir,” said Greg, “I was just bringing these two to see you. Said something about Henry Basker, and how they have something useful for you.” He nodded at Sherlock, who swaggered forward and sat on the edge of Neil’s desk, picking up a glass paper weight and meddling with it.

“I won’t waste your time, Detective. I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll make this quick,” Sherlock’s tone was oddly respectful, despite his casual posture . _Probably making up for his hospital incident last night_ John thought. “I... happened... upon some blood from the thief of my bike, one Henry Basker, and I decided to save some as evidence.”

“Wait.” Neil interrupted. “You ‘ _happened_ ’ upon some blood?”

Sherlock was irritated. “Yes, now -”

“Damn it Holmes, you stole it didn’t you?! Last night, at the hospital. All that hullabaloo was just so you could snatch some blood!”

“Well, obviously.”

Neil Seethed. “Little Molly Hooper has been absolutely beside herself. Absolutely _inconsolable_ \- the poor thing was in tears! I thought she knew who’d taken it but she refused to say. I should have known it was you! You’d charm anyone into silence you little -”

“ IF you’ll recall I what I told you at the scene of the crime, there is a drug that I believe our suspect, Henry, had ingested which influenced his behavior. I’m pleased to say my theory was correct, and that I can _prove it scientifically_.” Neil stared at him, at a loss words. Finally he slumped back in his chair, and waved a tired hand. “Get on with it...”

Sherlock plunged back in as though he had never been interrupted. “The drug is referred to as LSD, it’s an experimental substance currently being researched in a few locations across the nation. A lab in New York City, a lab in Philadelphia, and one just forty-five minutes away from here, which serves as a halfway point between the other two. The one nearby acts as a distribution center, but also hosts many scientists as we-”

“Cut to it Holmes; you said it yourself, I’m a busy man. ” Neil looked irritated by Sherlock's longwindedness, but he’d learned to hear the boy out.

“ _As well_.” Sherlock resumed, his tone somewhat less polite. “One of these said doctors happens to be a Dr. Stapleton, the current legal guardian of our own Henry Basker.” Sherlocks tone of arrogant confidence made John shift uncomfortably. “ _Lay off the ego, Sherlock!_ ” he whispered harshly. 

“How can I prove the connection between LSD and Basker? Easy. According to my brother’s files on the subject - ”

“Your brother?! You have the assistance of your incredibly important, government employed, could-get-me-sent-to-Siberia brother, and you don’t have him with you?!”

“Well, that wouldn’t help much. I have half of his files memorized and Fatty would do nothing but fuss and second guess me. And he wouldn’t send you to Siberia, Detective, The US is none too friendly with the Soviets - or haven’t you heard?” Sherlock shook his head, annoyed at being sidetracked. “ _Anyway_ my point is, his research folio indicated that a trademark side effect of LSD is a spike in blood glucose levels. Using test strips, I tested Henry’s blood for glucose levels.” Sherlock pulled the strip, encased in a plastic bag, from his pants pocket. “See? Note the dark wine color, indicating extremely high levels of glucose in the blood applied to the strip.” Sherlock gestured to John. “Do you trust this young man Detective?”

“Well, he never did me wrong, and Clyde Johnson over at the mill praises him to the skies, so I would say yes.” Neil grinned at sarcastically at Sherlock. “Then again, he is seen hanging around a lot with you. That inclines me to a more neutral answer.” He was impatient, but he played Sherlock’s little games, knowing it was the only way to get to the point. Neil was secretly very impressed by Sherlock, and he was always glad he had asked his son to hang around with him, though he’d never admit it to Sherlocks face. _The kid’s a genius with police work. If he were older we could use him full time, instead of making him consult. Makes us look ridiculous, consulting a kid…_

“I trust him too, Detective. That’s why I used his blood as the control. He’s far too dull to partake in any illicit substances that might alter his system.” He winked at John, who refrained from commenting, huffing loudly through his nose. “ Here’s his strip.” Sherlock put down the strip with John’s blood. “Notice how it’s much less saturated than Henry’s, showing his glucose is much lower, and incidentally, much more average. So there you are. Proof.”

Neil nodded slowly. “Alright, I see your point, but how do I know this is all legitimate and accurate?”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed resentfully. “ _I_ can testify to the accuracy of the lab equipment, but if that’s not good enough, I can have my brother do it for me. I’m sure you would love a visit from the most dangerous politician in two nations…”

“What my _friend_ ” ( Sherlock smirked) “is trying to say, is that he is willing to guarantee the legitimacy of his claim. The blood evidence, the files on the drug, all of it. It’s all truth, and available for your inspection. And if our guess turns out to be wrong, or the evidence false, he’ll take responsibility. You have his word. And if you really think I’m trustworthy, you can have my word, too.” Neil watched him closely for a minute, impressed by the eloquent speech from someone who, or so Greg had told him, was usually a quiet boy. Finally he sighed and grumbled, scrubbing his face with his hands.

“Alright alright alright. Fine. If I truly have your word, I’ll treat this as substantial evidence. And I suppose I have to send some men to talk to Henry. I assume you want to go with them?” He groaned as both boys nodded vigorously. “Fiiiiine. I will allow you to accompany them. But Sherlock - don’t you dare try anything, or it’s both our heads. And don’t you dare lead me on a wild goose chase either. This is a small case, but if what you say is true it may lead to a much bigger problem. I can’t afford to have fancy experimental drugs floating around town.” He began writing a note. “This is my permission for you to be in the hospital. Don’t break anything… or any _one_. Gregory - ” Greg shot up, having remained silent for their conversation. “Yessir?”

“Go with these bums. Keep ‘em out of trouble. I’ll have a squad car meet you guys there.” Neil got up from his desk, stretching and pulling on his coat. “All right, beat it. I’m leaving too, seems Mrs.Barrymore’s brother has turned up again.”

“The ex-con?” Greg asked, sounding concerned.

“Yes. He roughed her and her husband up last night, wanted cash and valuables.”

“That’s terrible! Are they alright?!” Baby blue eyes widened with concern. Sherlock snorted, he was always amused that John could be so concerned about someone he had never met.

Neil shot him a look, but didn’t comment, instead answering John. “Yes, they’re fine, they’re used to it, unfortunately. The struggle will be getting them to press charges! Mrs. Barrymore has always felt the need to protect her baby brother, even after all the hell he’s put her through. Though I doubt we’ll be able to keep ‘im, I’ll have to haul him in before he does any real damage.” Looking weary as always, Neil shook hands all round, giving his son a firm pat on the back, then led the way out of the office.

The three boys all left the building, and piled into Greg’s car, Greg and John up front, with Sherlock sprawled in back. They put the top up, as it was getting rather cool, then Greg turned the key. The Chevy started with a rumbling purr and all three boys grinned, taking a moment to appreciate the magic of a freshly tuned car. Finally, Greg pulled out and turned onto the street. “I’m impressed Sherlock, you managed not to strangle my Dad.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, my first impulse is not to resort to violence to get what I want.”

“Oh no,” John teased “You’re far too devious for that.” Sherlock flashed a rude hand gesture, which made John squeak and grab his hand, forcing the offending limb into a ball. Sherlock deftly twisted out of Johns grip and lunged for him, grabbing him and yanking him over the back of the seat into his lap. They collapsed into a pile, John shrieking and Sherlock laughing.

“Holy - DAMN IT SHERLOCK! Are you trying to make me wreck?!” Greg roared at him, almost turning around in his seat to glare at the defiant genius. 

“Oh, come off it Greg, you didn’t even flinch. Now, eyes on the road if you please, or we _will_ have an accident.” Greg grumbled, but turned forward, muttering about idiots and suicide. Sherlock struggled straightened out the mess of limbs and John, and it finally ended with him sprawled on the bench seat and John in his lap, struggling against wiry arms. “ _Sherlock_ ” He hissed, sending a frantic glance at Lestrade’s back. Sherlock merely shrugged and pulled John closer, so that his back was to the taller boy’s chest, and he could feel warm puffs of air on his neck every time Sherlock breathed.

Still he continued struggling, until Sherlock breathed in his ear, making him shiver. “It’s alright, John. Lestrade knows about me, and he’s quite alright with it. Surprisingly open minded about it in fact. _Relax._ You cannot live your life in fear.” John nodded warily, and relaxed a little bit. He flinched as Sherlock placed a kiss in the hollow behind his ear, all his senses exploding at once. He felt a cool hand draw his head back, as Sherlock tucked it under his chin. John looked again at Greg, but he didn’t seem to have noticed anything, so he finally gave in. Turning slightly he snuggled into Sherlock’s chest, enjoying the softness of the green silk shirt, and surprised by the lean muscle that lay underneath. He sniffed carefully, breathing in the scent he had dreamt about. The smell of Sherlock, of chemicals and mint and oil and coffee. He closed his eyes, listening to the thump of a steadily beating heart, that seemed to be going almost as fast as his was. _This can’t be real,_ he thought wistfully _Nothing is ever this wonderful._

Greg watched in the rear-view mirror as John relaxed for the first time that day, it was amazing how much tension was held in that one body. His eyes met Sherlock's, and he grinned. Sherlock grinned back and gave him a subtle wink, then buried his nose in neat blond hair, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. _It’s nice to see him this way._ Greg thought, turning left towards the hospital. _I think this is the first time I’ve seen him really happy. What a strange world we live in, that we can’t accept someone’s happiness, just because it’s a little strange. No -_ He corrected himself. _Not strange. Different. They can’t be happy because they’re different._ He frowned to himself, glancing once again at the couple in the backseat, who seemed utterly lost in a stolen little world of their own. They looked so free and innocent, happy in each others arms.

_It’s a damn shame._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buuuuuuuuSNUGGLES!! (T-T) sooooooo cuuuuuuuute!!! almost nothing actually happened in this chapter, and I'm okay with that. I needed a Halcyon. If anybody knows what that means, I warn you, it will be brief. Heehee-heehee-heehee 3:D 
> 
> Read the authors notes, you get hints! Want another one? Next Chapter is called Halcyon part II. Want anothernother one? alright, I'm feeling generous : Double the letter J. Want anothernothernother one? Well tough shit, I ain't your fairy godmother.
> 
> Once again, thank you for every comment, kudos, bookmark, reading, and half-assed glance at this fic. The fact that people want me to keep writing is both flattering and soul-wrenching. I shall do my best for you. 
> 
> All my love Children! Ciao Babe.


	9. Halcyon Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well once again, I am a day late and a dollar short. Deadline? what's a deadline? This entire week I've sat down to write and then been like "Oh look, it's fuck that shit o'clock! Let's go eat junk food." Then me, myself and I haul ass to the refrigerator.  
> It also doesnt' help that play rehearsals started this week. 'what play?' you ask? SHERLOCK HOLMES. boo-fuckin- yah. Unfortunately, the director refused to cast me as Sherlock ( I think there's some kind of gender bias thing going on.) 
> 
> Wow, I just dropped so many S and F bombs. oh well, it says swearing in the tags! Anyway, here's the chappie, I hope you like it, it's suuuper caseficcy, but I had a little fun as well ;)
> 
> A thousand thanks to my co-author the Doc, who once again managed not to rape my baby. It was difficult, I know.  
> ooooooh shiiiiit that sounds SO Wrong. oh well.
> 
> Guess what! WE GOT OVER TWO THOUSAND HITS BLAUGUGUGGUGUGUG!! And next chapter is number ten, so I'm hoping to have something special to celebrate - no promises though, we all know what a lazy poop I am.

John groaned  as he felt the car slow, and the tell tale bump that meant they had pulled into a parking lot. “There all ready?!” he moaned. Then he cringed, he sounded like a whiny three year old.  

“Yep, sorry pal, makeout session’s over.” Lestrade laughed as John stuck his tongue out.  

“Wasn't a makeout you prat, we didn't kiss at all." 

"Yeah, but participating in a _snuggle_ session isn't something I would ever accuse Sherlock of. Not if I want to keep all my body parts where they're supposed to be."  

John chuckled and stretched carefully, mindful of the long nose still buried in his hair. He tried to gently pull out of the wiry arms that held him, but they held fast. "Sherlock," He grumbled "lemme go, we're at the Hospital - time to show off, you berk." There was no response from Sherlock, except for a grumbling sigh and a tightening of limbs, as though Sherlock was trying to crush John even closer to him. “Sherlock!” John barked, poking a finger into too thin ribs. A growling whiny “Jaaaaawwwwwnnn!"  was the only response. 

John smirked, sympathetic. But there was work to be done. He jabbed both elbows back and up, using a fighting technique he'd had to use more than he would have liked in the past. But it served its purpose, making Sherlock cringe away with a surprised yelp. John quickly slid away and scrambled out of the car. Lestrade grinned at him and started walking, leading the way towards the Cop car parked in front of the hospital.  

Suddenly, John was grabbed in a tight lock from behind. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?!" He stopped shouting as a dark chuckle emanated from behind him, and a cool baritone drifted past his ear. "Do it again."  

"What - Sherlock - get the hell off me we've got work to do!" John squirmed a bit, but once again wiry arms held fast.  

"That move you pulled back there, that was Baritsu, an ancient form of hand-to-hand combat." 

"I don't care if it was bloody kung-fu, let me go!" 

"Where'd you learn a trick like that Johnny boy?" 

John Shivered as Sherlock used his darkest tone, one he had learned to use when he wanted to get something from John. "I lived in London Sherlock, I had to know how to take care myself."

 

"So you learned a form of Ju-jitsu? A martial art practiced in the East and nowhere else for the past thousand years?"  

"I didn't know what the hell it was Sherlock - Christ _ge'imoffme_!" With a garbled shout he finally twisted out of Sherlocks grip and landed a blow to his chest that sent him stumbling back.  

Greg had been standing, watching impatiently, with a martyred expression on his face. But when he saw his Gang leader go spinning away from the suddenly-fierce John Watson, he whistled and applauded. "Damn impressive John. Pretty damn impressive." John nodded curtly in thanks.

Sherlock flopped on the ground, looking up at the boy who stood over him. Again, the god he had seen that first day in the hallway shone through. In that moment John's guard had dropped, and a flood of information poured out, flickering in Sherlocks mind at a mad pace. _Correct and strong fighting posture - he really knows what he's doing. His style isn't straight Baritsu, more of an eclectic blend... Street fighting. Not merely defensive, offensive as well._ Sherlock grinned as he stood slowly. He knew John had a dangerous but it was clear his Johnny boy had a lot of experience using that danger. Better and better. _John Watson... bloody impossible John Watson_ \- Sherlock clenched his Jaw for a moment, willing himself not to heed the stirrings he felt below. These trousers were far too tight for that kind of nonsense.

After a moment he held a hand out to John, who eyed it warily. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and asked tersely “You going to leave me on the asphalt then Johnny boy?” John sighed, the defensive walls dropping in an instant, cutting off Sherlocks stream of deductions. He took his hand and pulled him up. Sherlock felt the wolfish grin spread,. _This mad boy, taking on a superior predator, then coming to his enemies aid. I’ll kiss him this instant._

John eyes widened as he saw a familier wolfish grin on Sherlocks face. “Don’t even think about it.” He hissed. Sherlock gave him puppy dog eyes, going as far as to stick out his lower lip, but John merely grimaced and turned back to Lestrade, muttering “Right out in public.... daft bastard... Going to get us all beaten and killed....” 

Lestrade shook his head. _These two. Gone from snuggling to bickering to brawling in a matter of minutes. Absolutely nuts._

The three young men walked up to the police officer waiting by his car, near the entrance to the hospital. Sherlock, having memorized the entire personnel file of the police station, grinned - this was a new officer. _New, just out of the academy, high marks, knows nothing of actual police work._ Sherlock grinned, _Seems Neil has a new trial by fire for new recruits. Stick ‘em with me and see how long it takes me to tear them apart. This officer won’t be worth anything the investigation, clearly only here to escort us in._. He paused, feeling an unexpected surge of pride along with the usual sardonic amusement he felt when contemplating the local police force. _I knew Neil liked my work._ He smirked as John shook the officers hand and introduced the group, deferential in the presence of “authority”. “Good afternoon sir, my name is John Watson. This is Sherlock Holmes, and Greg Lestrade, though perhaps you’ve met him before.”  

 

“I'm Officer Bradley. Y-yeah, I have... met Greg.” The Officer shook Johns hand awkwardly then took a deep breath and turned to look Sherlock in the eye. “Listen, Carl Powers is a nephew of mine, and I don’t appreciate what you did to him. If I see a single slip, Mr. Holmes, I will pull you off the case. And if I see you try roughing this kid up in any way, I won’t hesitate to remove you by force.” _How dare he?_ thought John, _Sherlock wouldn’t hurt someone that badly._ He thought of the boy Sherlock had nearly killed in the hallway. _Maybe he would. But still rather blunt..._

 

 Sherlock didn't seem offended, just impatient and annoyed. He huffed in vexation, and bit out “I’m sorry for what happened to Carl, really. I didn’t want it to come to blows.” He saw the officer did not looked convinced and decided to change tactics. He hunched slightly and tried to look sincere and sympathetic. “Really Officer, that’s all behind me. I’m ‘cleaning up my act’ as you Americans put it. All this business with Henry is really my wonderfully uplifting journey to redemption. You can see that can’t you?” The officer nodded warily. “Of course you can. But of course, I can’t redeem my character _outside_ the hospital so – if you would be so kind?” He gestured towards the hospital doors. Officer Bradley still looked doubtful, but nevertheless turned, and led them into the main lobby. 

Sherlock’s admission of guilt to what happened to Carl surprised John. He had heard whispers of Carl Powers, and Sherlock beating him within an inch of his life, but he had refused to believe it. Even now, with Sherlock’s open admission of guilt, he wasn’t entirely convinced. Something about his confession and incredibly insincere apology seemed ... off. He nudged Sherlock and nodded to Bradley, who was debating with an extremely angry looking head nurse. “I can’t believe he bought that load of bollox. About a journey for redemption, and you being sorry about beating Carl.” 

Sherlock raised a thin eyebrow at him “Who said I beat him?” 

“You did!” 

“When?” 

John stared at him – was the boy going loopy?! “ _Just now_ ” 

“I assure you John, I most certainly did not. Why would I confess to a crime I did not commit?” 

“But You said-!” 

“I said I was sorry for what happened, and that I hadn’t meant it to. I didn’t say I’d done it.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and strode towards the elevators, impatiently jamming the button in.

“You didn’t do it.” John was sarcastic. 

“I think we’ve established that yes.” 

“Then why didn’t you just tell Officer Bradley that?!” 

“Do you really think he’d believe me?” 

“Well, no but if you could prove –"

“Impossible John, I’ve no alibi. The only way to prove I didn’t do it is to bring forth the person who _did_.” 

John watched him narrowly as the elevator arrived, not even bothering to argue as Sherlock dragged him in; then pushed the ‘close door’ button, causing the doors to shut in Greg and Bradley’s faces.

“You know who did it.” He said suddenly. 

Once again dark eyebrows rose. “What makes you say that John?” 

“You know everything.” 

"True..." Sherlock smirked, and ruffled Johns hair (much to his annoyance) 

“ _Maybe_ I do know who did it Johnny boy.” The elevator dinged as it reached the third floor. 

“Well then? Who?!” 

“Ah-ah.” Sherlock raised a thin finger and stepped out into the corridor. “That would be telling.” 

_Guess I’m not the only one with secrets._ John thought sullenly, feeling snubbed. He followed Sherlock, who stopped by the door to the stairwell, opening it just in time to come face to face with a red-faced Bradley. Greg was close behind him, puffing like a steam engine. Clearly they’d just sprinted up the stairs in an effort to catch up. “You made excellent time Gentlemen! Shall we proceed?” 

Sherlock turned and swaggered down the hallway leading the way to Henry’s room. The Officer followed, looking mutinous. When they reached the room, Greg resolved to stay in the hallway for a moment to prevent any other visitors from entering while the questioning was going on. Greg had gotten used to this; all of the work he had to do as if he were a police officer, but none of the privileges. Where was his gun? Where was his badge? He couldn’t be any more useful than the man who did what others thought was too tedious. He even did it within Sherlock’s gang. He knew he had to stick with it, though. Gotta make Dad proud. I don’t want to let him down…  

Looking up at opening the door, Henry froze, the look on his face one of pure terror. “S-Sherlock, I’m so, so sorry! I know you w-were looking for me b-but p-please don’t kill me - I swear, I didn’t know what I was thinking when I-”  

“You’re right. You didn’t know what you were thinking, Henry.” Sherlock had a drip of intimidation in his voice, speaking abruptly to stop Henry’s useless blabbering. “I know it was the drug doing its job.” Henry, if it was possible, turned even whiter at the mention of drugs. Slowly, Sherlock sat straight-backed in a chair by the bed, and placed his palms together under his chin, watching Henry with electric eyes. “Tell me, where did you get such a restricted drug?”  

"I-   I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Henry’s voice shook, and his hands clenched the sheets in front of him, but he held Sherlock’s gaze. 

Sherlock looked skeptical. “LSD. The drug you took before going wild and stealing my vehicle. Surely you remember ingesting it?” 

Henry dropped his gaze, instead staring at the worn blanket, picking non-existent lint. “I don’t remember anything before the episode, I don’t know what happened.” 

_I’ll just bet you don’t..._ ” John resisted the urge to snort from his position by the door. It was painfully obvious the boy was lying – why did he insist on maintaining such a farce?!

Sherlock sighed. “Right, let’s try it this way. Your guardian, a Dr. Stapleton, works at one of a few select facilities across the United States. He has access to large amounts of restricted, experimental materials, including LSD. True so far?” Sherlock said it as though he was inches away from Henry’s face during a very intense “good cop, bad cop” session in which the good cop had taken the day off. Sherlock, however, still stood several feet away, afraid that Carl’s cousin would make good on his promise to remove him.  

“Okay, yeah… yeah, that’s right so far, I guess. I don’t know about that restricted stuff.” 

“SO- you snuck into his lab and stole something eh? Thought you’d make a good profit on a new invention. Maybe you didn’t know what it was, and ingested it by accident. Maybe you did know, and thought you’d have a go before handing it off to a reputable dealer. If a drug dealer can be considered reputable.” 

“No!” Henry insisted, sweating now. “None of that happened, _none of that is true_!” 

  Sherlock looked frustrated and John knew it was time for a good cop to step in. “Listen, Sherlock here won’t press charges for the damages to his bike-”  

  “Motorcycle, John, it’s a motorcycle. It’s not a damned paper delivery device.” The remark sounded snide, but Sherlock said it in a casual, almost playful tone. 

  “Motorcycle. He won’t press charges if you cooperate. Alright? We just have to know what did happen. Where did you get the drugs?”   

“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about any drugs! I’ve never heard of this LDS stuff!” 

“LSD.” Both John and Sherlock corrected him at the same time. 

Bradley finally stepped in. “Look Son, no offense, but you’re a terrible liar. These drugs are dangerous, and not meant for commercial use. We just got over the cocaine fad of the forties,” (John thought he saw Sherlock stiffen, but maybe it was just his imagination.) “We don’t need a new wave of recreational drug use. Just, tell us how you got the stuff, and who you were gonna give it to, and we’ll leave you alone. No charges, no press, and we’ll promise not to mention you in any of our investigations.” 

  The room fell silent for a bit, as Henry hesitated, considering. Finally he shook his head.    “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sorry, I wish I could help, but I don’t know anything about drugs.” 

  “Alright, Henry. Thank you for your time,” the cop said, sounding resigned as if he’d known the first attempt would be unsuccessful. Sherlock wanted to prove Bradley wrong almost as much as he wanted to prove himself right. Wanted to snap at him to bugger off and let Sherlock do some real police work, but he kept his silence. God, John’s made me soft. I won’t even insult a police officer without fearing John Watson will disapprove. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

The boys conferred with the officer in the lobby of the hospital, telling him the next leg of their plan. 

  “We have to go to Stapleton’s residence and question him. We now have a very good probable cause linking him with what happened. All we have to do is ask him a few questions. We don’t need a warrant if he consents -” said Sherlock. 

  “Yeah, but that’s a pretty big ‘if’ . Stapleton’s probably smart enough not to answer any questions from a couple of nosy kids. He probably won’t even see you, I doubt you’ll be allowed in the building, especially after the riot you made going after his adopted son. You guys might have to wait in the car. Give me the whole rundown quick, then I’ll head over.”

Sherlock looked like he was about to punch Bradley in the face – he hated someone telling him he was incapable. John kicked him hard in the shin, earning a surprised look from the other two. “No need for that Sherlock. Just tell ‘im what you know and we can follow him there. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we waited in the car while he went in.” He looked questioningly at Bradley, who shrugged. 

“Alright, if it’ll keep you from doing something stupid. Follow me over and park around the block, I’ll let you know how it goes. Now, tell me everything.”

As John and Greg explained there various information and theories, Sherlock watched John resentfully. _Why can’t I go in?! I’m twice the investigator this stupid berk is._ John saw him staring and blushed. Sherlock grinned tightly. _Well if I’m trapped in the back of a car, I’m damn well gonna make it entertaining._

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

  After what felt like an eternity of waiting (and Greg refusing to glance in the rearview mirror) Officer Bradley strolled to the car with a defeated look on his face. “Hand check!” Greg barked warningly. Sherlock and John slid to their own sides of the car, placing their hands on the flip top above them and looking at each other, laughing. The three stepped out of the car, standing on the side walk by the office building that held Stapleton's lab to talk to the officer. 

“Well, you were right!” Bradley shook his head, looking impressed. “I got the truth out of Stapleton, easy as pie. He denied everything at first, but he folded like a house of cards at the first mention of a warrant and public arrest. I reckon he likes his job and reputation more than he likes whoever paid him to do this.” 

  “He was paid? To steal a experimental drug and give it to a kid under his guardianship?” asked John.  

  “He was paid to steal it, and his son was supposed to be delivering it. He doesn’t treat that kid too well. We searched the house earlier, and you should see his room; no bigger than a broom cupboard. From the way he talked about the kid and the physical anger I saw, I would assume Stapleton’s not only been exploiting Henry, he’s been abusing him-”  

  “I could have told you that. Markings on his arm were inconsistent with injuries that could be sustained in a motorcycle accident like the one he had suffered.”  

  Although everyone looked at Sherlock, it was actually John who had said this.Sherlock turned to stare and said "Explain."

John blushed. “He had bruises on his left shoulder, even though the motorcycle was on its right side. And it doesn’t even seem like it fell while he was riding it, if he’d tipped the bike, the bruise wouldn’t have looked like that, and his shoulder would probably have been at least sprained.” John watched Sherlock’s expression nervously, hoping he’d been right.

  “Holy hell, John. Quit hanging around Sherlock, he’s rubbing off on you and I don’t think I’d survive two of him running around.” Greg shivered dramatically. Sherlock and John both laughed a bit, and Sherlock nodded approvingly, making John beam. 

Bradley took a moment out of being professional of himself to smirk at the boys. He wanted to hate Sherlock for what he had done to Carl, wanted to beat him into the ground; but he had to admit he was an asset. Sherlock said he was trying to redeem himself, why not give him a chance? He definitely wanted to keep Sherlock on the good side of the law… especially if he could make the force look good.  

“Anyway, I’m headed back to the station to get this information to Detective Lestrade, and file paper work.” they all groaned in sympathy, making him smile once again. “ I asked Stapleton to testify against whoever put him in this position, and he said he would in exchange for immunity. It will make him look good to his employers, probably help him keep his job. A lot better than pulling a profit off of stealing something. If he spins it right, he’ll just get a slap on the wrist for the items being lost. All in all, things look okay for him." He paused a moment, looking speculatively at the boys. Then he turned to Greg. "Why don't you head back to the hospital and talk to Henry. Try to get a confession, and the story as far as his end of things. I’ll meet you there after I’m done at the station.”  Greg nodded solemnly, surprised and flattered that Bradley had given him the job instead of Sherlock or John. 

    The three teenagers piled back into Greg’s car yet again, and Bradley went back to his car. The four men however, didn’t know that someone had overheard their exchange. An unknown figure watched the black and white, and the Chevy pull away, then turned slowly to regard the building. _Seems some cleanup is in order..._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

    The three boys arrived at the hospital and went back to Henry’s room. They knocked, and all three entered. Greg was riding the high of successful police work, and now here he was, the most authoritative of all the boys in the hospital room. He was their police officer now. _I'll make Dad proud_.

His tone when he spoke was stern and official, one he had heard his father use so often. "Henry , we have just received a confession from your guardian, Dr. Stapleton." Henry blanched at the name but said nothing, merely staring at the group standing at the end of his bed. Greg cleared his throat and continued. "He claims that you were involved in a plot to steal and deliver a sample of a restricted research substance. He has also agreed to testify against the prospective buyer in return for immunity." 

Looking shocked Henry blurted "But that's impossible!" 

"Why so?" Sherlock asked, butting in before Greg had a chance to respond. 

"Because the stupid jerk didn't know who the buyer was!" Henry froze, his open mouth mirroring that of the other three. "Oh. I... I just confessed didn't I?" 

"Well, not really... " John smiled. 

Greg added quickly" But you've certainly said enough to justify us bringing you in for interrogation." 

 Henry groaned, and puffed a lock of brown hair out of his face. “Fine. I might as well tell you what I know, for what it's worth." John pulled a notebook out of his bag and snatched a pen from the side table, ready to take notes. "Stapleton was contacted by phone at home late one evening two weeks ago. An unidentified voice offered a large sum of money if he could acquire and pass on a small parcel of LSD. He's always been greedy, so he agreed, I doubt he thought twice about it. He took the stuff from his work, but he didn't want to risk getting caught with it on him, so he used me to make the drop. I was told that I’d get twenty percent of the cut for delivering it. I was also told the buyer would skin me alive if I even thought of going to the police. So obviously I agreed to do it, and to keep my mouth shut." 

" The anonymous buyer gave us a drop site, and a time. I was supposed to put the package in the trash can in the northeast corner of Hyde park at six o'clock that Friday night. Stapleton is an ass, and I didn’t want to listen to a word that bastard said. He's made my life a living hell since my dad died, so I made sure he wouldn't get any profit out of this. I had it with me in school, I was going to make the drop after, but instead I took the LSD myself. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about anyway, so I put the whole bag full in a glass of orange juice and drank it."

Sherlock choked and snorted and Henry grinned. "Yeah, think I took too much, cause next thing I know I’m here in this hospital strapped to the bed. I have a faint memory of seeing your motorcycle n the school parking lot, But nothing after that." Henry shrugged. So there you go. Any questions?”  

Sherlock was about to ask something when there was a sharp rapping on the door. Greg went to it and opened it. Neil stood there, looking grim. 

“Dad? What are you doing here? I thought Bradley - " 

  “Bradley’s patrolling the area. There's been an incident. Would you step into the hallway for a minute?" 

  The boys exchanged curious glances but followed him out, closing the door behind them. "What’s going on Dad?" Greg looked worried by his fathers demeanor. 

   Neil sighed, and rubbed his temple. “It’s Stapleton. He was shot by an unknown assailant minutes after you guys left. Someone called in after hearing the gunshot." 

Everyone froze. "Was anyone seen?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"No, old Miss Hatchby reports seeing a rough young fellow in a leather jacket sneaking around in the area, but I thought she'd probably just seen you." 

Sherlock gestured to himself "I'm not wearing my jacket Lestrade. I cleaned up today, see? Absolutely respectable." 

"What the hell is going on?" John asked, feeling an odd shiver run down his spine. 

"I dunno boys, but this is clearly more serious than I first believed. Too serious." Neil smiled apologetically. "Look, I know you've been a tremendous help on the case so far, and I'm sure you've had a great time, but I'm gonna have to ask you to stay out of it now. This is a case of murder, and murder is no game."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Seriously?! "Murder is no game"?! What kinda crap is that?!  
> Seriously fellas, if anyone can think of a better melodramatic line to end this chap on, I will gladly change it, cause this one's crap. 
> 
> Well anyway, I hope you like it. For some reason I have "Land of Confusion" by Genesis stuck in my head. Have you ever seen that music video? It's absolutely traumatizing. It will give you nightmares. Go watch it.
> 
> Thanks again to anyone who has read this dumb fic, and even more thanks to anyone who liked it, I bless every comment, bookmark, kudos, and hit with holy water blessed by the high priest of fanfiction. I dunno who that is but there on the internet - send them twenty bucks and they'll bless shit! totally messing with you. I have no idea what I'm talking about. shut up Missy. Just Shut Up.


	10. Dangersome Sire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little peek at the underworld...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo yo yo what is uuuuuppp my homies?!  
> I am so, so sorry about that. It just kind of .... happened. Well - VOILA! Another chapter pour vous, ma petits! By the time this is actually posted I will be hitting stage four of sleep deprivation - Heinous bitch. (Stage one = catatonic, Stage two = grumpikins, Stage three = back the fuck off, and stage five = She who must not be named. I don't remember anything after that.) Anyway, You stinkers better be darned grateful I feel obliged to ya! 
> 
> This chapter was mostly written while I was sitting in my basement watching back to back episodes of "The Magic School Bus", so if things get druggy, I apologize. I don't think they do but, as I said, I am very VERY tired. Couple of things before we get rolling:  
> 1st off : the violence warning comes into play in this chapter, as well as the abuse. It's not suuuuper terrible but it's bad enough, And I'm afraid it's only gonna get worse. The title of this chapter _Should_ be "Hamish is a dirtbag" but I decided to go for something a wee bit classier. But anyway, MAJOR ABUSE TRIGGER WARNING - domestic violence is not for the faint of heart. 
> 
> 2nd : IT'S OUR TENTH CHAPTER HOLY SHEEEEEEEEIIIIIIITTTTT!!!! I cannot express how utterly amazed I am that I have made it this far, and that people are actually reading this hot mess of a fic. It touches me, truly. So, as promised (well, vaguely hinted morelike) I have a celebratory gift for y'all. Courtesy of my dear, dear darling friend GenuineWonderment, I HAVE MY FIRST FAN ART!!! 
> 
> LOOK AT IT! JUST LOOK AT IT!! IT'S BEAUTIFUL. I HAVE NO WORDS.  
> 
> 
> Soooo yeah, I'm sobbing at my own inadequacies, so I might as well drop thanks to Genuinewonderment - go check out her tumlbr it's fabulous - as well as my cowriter the Doc, who edited this crap, and let me bounce ideas like pennies from heaven - GOOD SONG.
> 
> not brit-pik'd, I own nothing, YOLO SWAG ( I am soooooooooooooooooo sorry. I'll commit seppuku now.)

Hamish Watson studied his face in the smoky old mirror that hung over the fireplace in the living room. _You’re gettin’ on, Old Boy. More than a few grey hairs - Oh lord, are those wrinkles?!_ He rubbed and stretched the skin under his eyes carefully. _Nah, you’re just tired. Went on a hell of bender last night didn’t ya?_ His rough fingers found the fresh red scratch running down his cheek, and his eyes darkened with rage. _Stupid cow. There’s no hidin’ that mark. What was she thinkin’, telling me stories? Thinks she can lie ta me, eh? Well I’ll show her, I’ll bloody show her. Lie ta me…_

He looked down at the sobbing woman at his feet, his lip curling in disgust. “Lie ta me, eh? Think ya can BLOODY LIE TA ME?!” He kicked her in the stomach, relishing the squeaking groan she emitted. Women were the best punching bags, so delicate and breakable; all of them were stupid, just begging someone to smash them up. He gestured to wreckage in the room - the chair overturned, the lamp lying in pieces, the new hole in the wall where he’d planted her head minutes before. “Clean this mess up. I’m goin’ out. An’ it better _spick_ an’ _span_ when I get back.”

There was no response aside from shuddering sobs. He grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back, glaring down at the tear stained face. “D’ya hear?!” She nodded, fresh, silent tears running down her cheeks. She flinched as he raised a hand, but he merely ran a thumb over the deep blue bruise blossoming across her forehead _Lovely._ He let her go and she slid down with a thump. He walked through the kitchen, pausing at the door to yell "An' don't you even think o' goin' out today!"

In the silence that followed the slamming door, the woman lay on the floor, sobbing quietly. She didn't understand that man, she didn't understand how she'd ended up in this hell. And her children... John. He was going after John. She had to help him, had to save her son from his father's wrath, but what could she do? There was nothing.... nothing.

_Dear God, will we ever be free?_

Suddenly she had an idea. She slowly sat up, then with a groan stood, clutching her stomach. _I hope he hasn’t ruptured something…_ She went to the telephone and spoke to the operator. “Yes, connect me to the Holmes residence please.” There was a long pause.

“Yes, this is Mrs. Watson, I was just wondering if my son John is there. ….Oh, out. With Sherlock?.... Yes, yes I see….. Is Sherlock’s father or mother in? …. Brother, oh well, I suppose… Yes, it is rather urgent I’m afraid…. Yes I’ll hold. Thank you Ms. um?.... Hudson. Thank you Mrs. Hudson, I’m much obliged.” There was another long pause. She traced her fingers over the bruise, eyeing it anxiously in the mirror that hung over the hall table. Then she gave a start. “Hello?! ….. Yes, good afternoon Mr.Holmes, this is Mrs.Watson, John’s mother. ….. So I was told.…No, I think it’s just as well I spoke to you Mr.Holmes, you see his father - John’s father I mean, he’s not happy with their erm, friendship…. I think you understand the situation perfectly….. I believe he may try something drastic, he’s rather a - a _temperamental_ man..….Just thought I’d warn you, he may come round to fetch John, I don’t want there to be any trouble…. No, no I’m sure you won’t but - … Yes I understand. Thank you Mr.Holmes, I’m sure you have things well in hand…. Not at all, good afternoon Sir…. yes, yes, goodbye.” She hung up and gave a sigh, resting her face in a hand, her other arm wrapped protectively around her aching middle. She’d done all she could do. _It’s in Mycroft Holmes’ hands now…_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The screen door bounced as Hamish slammed it behind him. He strode to the garage opening the padlock only he had a key to, and sent the door flying upward. Unsteadily, he clambered into the brand new roadster he kept hidden inside, and peeled out , flying down the road at a breakneck pace. Angrily, he smacked a pack of Lucky Strikes against the steering wheel until a cigarette came out. He came to a screeching halt at a stop sign, and used the pause to light the cig with an old scuffed lighter from his back pocket. His brain calmed as he took a few shaky drags. _What was that bitch thinkin’? Lyin’ ta me like that. “ ‘e’s at a friends ‘ouse!” Oh yeah, and we all know which friend that must be. Fuckin’ fag comin’ on to me boy. And that stupid git just can’t bloody ‘elp ‘imself can he? Sees a bit o’ tail in leather and runs. Bloody fairy._ He narrowed his eyes, taking another drag. He had to stop this filth now. He'd just gotten settled with his new bosses, he couldn't afford for word to get out he had a pervert for a son. _But where the hell are they?!_

What was the name John had blabbered - Homms? Homes? Holmes. That was it, Sherlock Holmes. _What the hell kind of a name was Sherlock? No wonder the bastard's messed in the head, with a name like Sherlock_. So, he knew who he was looking for - he had no doubt John would be with this Holmes kid - but the problem was finding them. Well, he had connections now didn't he? Very _informed_ connections... He turned into the downtown area, and pulled into the lot by Angelo's, a rough looking bar, perfectly suited to Hamish's taste. He went in, nodding to the man behind the bar as he sat. "Angelo."

"Watson! Haven't seen you around for a couple days. The usual?"

He nodded tersely, glancing at the door in the back of the room. "He in?"

The smile slipped slightly on Angelo's face. "Yeah. Yeah, he's in. But he's got the kid in with him."

"Who's got what kid where?" A cheery southern accent drifted from the front door, where Sid Prince had just entered.

"The Boss, 'e's got _the kid_ in his office."Hamish clasped hands briefly as the resident safecracker plunked down next to him.

"No surprise there, I hear the kid's been plenty busy these past couple days..." He nodded in thanks as Angelo slid two pints towards Hamish and himself.

Hamish kicked him under the bar, eyeing Angelo. The swarthy American-Italian knew there was a criminal organization operating out of his backroom, but he was not aware how very dangerous the organization was. He was content with the monthly slice he got out of the money he laundered, and the Morningside Family (for that was the organizations name) was content to keep him in the dark about all but the essentials. He certainly didn't know that the teen frequenting his bar was guilty of serious crimes, and had been planning a murder.

Sid just shrugged, and wiped the beer foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Calm Hamish boy, calm."

Hamish leaned in. "So, he's gone through with it then? 

Sid grinned. "Oh he went through with all right, not two hours ago."

"Look, why'd he do it? I knew the deal had gone south but was killin' 'im really necessary?" 

"Oh yeah, first of all, the deal went south because the bastards dumb kid never delivered the goods. Seems he took 'em himself, and then he landed in _police custody_." 

Hamish whistled "Christ.."

"Yeah. Lucky no names were mentioned, but still. Anyway, Jimmy and the boss don't like loose ends. The Doc had to go." Sid sat back, noticing Angelo trying to eavesdrop, and changed the subject quickly. "Welp, I 've got a meeting with this boss in a minute, so if you want to see him you can tag along with me.”

“Ta, Mate.” Hamish raised the glass in thanks, then downed the whole thing in one long draft. Sid watched him with wonder. “Lord, I’ve never seen anyone down a glass like that, it’s a miracle you’re still upright!”

Hamish thumped his chest. “Strong constitution, mate. Only a Scotsman can really hold ‘is liquor.”

“Thought you was English.”

“ _I am._ But me dad were Scots, through and through. And drinkin’s an inherited skill.”

“Guess you have a tough time keepin’ your boy away from the bottle then huh?”

Hamish shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, ‘im? Nah, ‘e’s far too much of a ninny for that. ‘Is sister now, she can drink with the best of ‘em. Girl’s nearly as fast as me when it comes to downin’ a bottle. Bloody unbelievable, really.” He shot a glance towards the back room. “Makes it a bit hard though, havin’ kids an’ all, to take orders from that whelp. Doesn’t sit right, takin’ orders from a kid my sons age.”

Sid took another sip of his beer, looking serious. “Yeah, but this ain’t no ordinary kid. This one’s smart. Real smart. Some say he can just look atcha, just stare for a minute, and know everything about you. It’s creepy as hell. And vicious, I tell ya what…” He whistled low. “He damn near beat a boy to death a few months ago. He’s the Boss’s favorite interrogator too. He’ll make anyone scream, yeah... He’s got a reeeeaaal mean streak. “ He leaned forward, speaking quietly, glancing round to make sure they weren’t overheard. “If you ask me, he’s not quite normal. got some sorta screw loose, gets real funny notions sometimes….”

He leaned back hurriedly, gulping at his beer as the door to the back room opened, revealing a short dark boy in a leather jacket. "Prince," Sid shot off his stool, looking terrified. "He's ready for you." Sid nodded and jerked his head at Hamish, who stood, dropping a wad of bills on the bar as he scuffled after him. Sid walked straight through but Hamish was stopped by the kid, who stepped in front of him swiftly. He said nothing, strange amber eyes watching him curiously, coldly. "He's with me Jim." Sid called, sounding nervous. Hamish met the gaze ironically, Sid Prince was a fool, cowering in front of this whelp. _Hamish_ wasn't scared of a kid. "You gonna lemme through kid?"

The dark boy's smile was feral, he didn't budge but he called over his shoulder "Ed, it looks like Siddy brought a friend. Shall I let him in or...?" His voice was strangely high, odd but strangely fitting with the menacing aura that surrounded him.

A big voice, full of sleaze and danger called "Oh let him in Jim. Hamish my good man! How's my favorite new Bag Man?"

Hamish brushed past the teen indifferently, adopting a respectful tone as he moved to stand in front of the huge oaken desk in the center of the room. He kept his gaze down, studying the paper-strewn surface of the desk. " 'M all right Mr. Morningside, thanks.”

“Good, good. I believe you’ve met my colleague, James Moriarty?” Hamish grinned jauntily “Oh yeah, ‘ow ya doin’ Jimmy?” Dark amber eyes flashed, and the boy flipped his greased hair off of his face angrily. “Do _not_ call me that.” Hamish wanted to retort, but thought better of it. Instead he flicked his eyes up to glance at his boss.

Edgar Morningside was a big beefy man with multiple chins, thinning hair, and more power than a Washington politician. He seemed to be nothing more than an ugly man with piggy eyes and an expensive suit, but he was actually one of the kingpins of the crime world, with a network that spanned from the ports of Maine to Chicago. He was possibly the most dangerous man in America, and he was now watching Hamish expectantly. “I'm sorry for intrudin' sir, I just needed a bit o' information, an' I thought - as you seem ta know everthin' goes on around 'ere..." 

"Ah, of course, I'd be happy to help - however my business with Mr. Prince is rather pressing, do you mind waiting a moment?" Hamish shook his head, keeping his gaze down. "Excellent. Now, Sid.” Morningside’s voice changed as he spoke to Sid. It became reproachful and exasperated- a father reproaching a wayward child. "I don't know how, but you somehow managed to leave multiple sets of prints on the safe at the Beckman hotel. Prints the Police were _delighted_ to find." Sid shrank back, not meeting the suddenly cold gaze of his employer. "Is there any particular reason you wove your identity at the police like a big red flag Sid?"

Sid swallowed. This was very, very bad, the Boss did not allow mistakes. "I.. I got called in for that job on short notice. I left half of my gear at home, I musta forgot my gloves. It wasn’t intentional, I just… forgot."

"I see… You…. _forgot_." Hamish shivered, Morningside's voice was as cold as ice. "Luckily for you, the detective in charge of the case is a friend of mine. He was able to make sure the prints were mislaid. I doubt you'll be called in for questioning, but as you do have priors and are known to be in the area, I've arranged an alibi for you." Hamish saw a meaty fist extend across the desk, proffering a manila folder.

Sid took it gratefully, babbling with relief. "Thanks Boss - this is great - I don't know why I forgot them but I swear it won’t happen again - it’s just grand of you to do this for me - "

The meaty hand was raised, silencing Sid. " I didn't do it for you, Prince.” He snapped. “I did it because _you_ are connected to _me_. Your arrest could jeopardize my position in this community. And we can't have that, can we?"

Sid shook his head, pale once more. The boss continued speaking, contemplative. "Now, normally your _forgetfulness_ would have earned you a pair of cement shoes, but ... you _are_ incredibly good at your job. So I have resolved to simply give you some pain, as a little _reminder_. What shall it be Jim? Break a leg?"

Jim smiled, his voice cheery. He was clearly enjoying the melodramatic game of intimidation. "Oh no, no. We need him mobile! The Parks job is coming up, and they have two flights of stairs. We could break all the bones in one hand….”

The boss shook his head "He needs them both for the work. Besides, safe-cracking is a delicate job, we can't have a big cast getting in the way."

By this time Sid was shaking slightly, and he shot Hamish a pleading look. However Hamish wasn't listening. "Why don't ya just Tip-toe 'im?" Both Jim and the boss turned to look at him curiously. Morningside seemed a bit annoyed, but Jim asked "What do you mean 'tip-toe'?" He looked pleasantly interested, as though they were discussing a hobby instead of methods of torture.

"You know, Tip-toe 'im. What ,you don't have that here?” Hamish shrugged. “ Well, my lot back in London was a lot like yours. Not as big o’ course, but the big bosses, they didn’t like mistakes. Gettin’ new help’s always a nightmare, so instead of killin’ ‘im, they’d hand ‘im over to us enforcers. We'd strap a man down and put a pattern of crossways cuts on the bottom of his feet - with penknife or summat. You'd treat it proper, so it didn't get infected; but the poor bastard couldn't walk for weeks without feeling the pain through and through. The only way ta avoid putting pressure on their feet was to walk on tip-toe, but even that didn’t help much. An’ o’ course, anyone who saw ‘em hobblin’ on tip-toe knew what had happened. Lemme tell ya, there weren’t many as made the same mistake twice." He smiled fondly at the memory, feeling a wave of nostalgia for rainy London streets, and the dark London underworld. 

Jim and Morningside exchanged an impressed glance. “Well, well, that sounds very effective.” Morningside pushed a buzzer on his desk, and two big men came in the door just in time to grab Sid, who’d been edging towards it. The three men ignored the whining and pleading of the safe-cracker, Morningside simply saying “Put him in the quiet room, boys, I’ll deal with him shortly.” Once Sid was pulled out of the room, Morningside turned back to Hamish, smiling. “Why Hamish! Why didn’t you tell me you were an enforcer as well as a bag man ?” 

Hamish shrugged once more. “I know ‘ow these operations work. It’d be downright rude ta tell what my job should be, and an enforcer ‘as got to be a trusted man.”

“Well, so must a Bag man, a Bag man handles all kinds of cash.” Hamish shifted uncomfortably, but nodded.

“Yeah, an enforcer hears all sorts of things screamed while he’s workin’. Threats, promises, secrets - they’ll say anythin’ ta get ya ta stop. Ya can’t listen, an’ ya gotta know your work. Can’t kill ‘em too quick, before you’ve made your point. Or let ‘em pass out before you’ve got your information. You’ve gotta be able ta trust your man not ta use what he hears, and ta do the job right the first time.”

Morningside nodded, and exchanged another meaningful glance with Jim. "Well, We may have an opening for a man with your talents. But first, what was this information you needed?" 

"Oh, me boy, John, he's been runnin' around with a bloke, I think he's trouble. I wanted ta go get 'im before things got outta hand, trouble is I dunno where the kid lives."

"What 'bloke'?" Jim asked sharply. 

"I think the name was Holmes... Sherlock Holmes? Name ring a bell?" 

Morningside chuckled darkly as Jim stiffened. "Oh yes, that name rings several bells. Eh Jim?" Jim shifted, eyes strangely bright. He spoke softly "Oh yes. I'd agree Mr. watson, their relationship is a very _dangerous_ one indeed." Hamish tensed, this boy made it sound like he knew exactly what kind of relationship it was... "Holmes _is_ a trouble maker then?" 

"Oh yeah, constantly getting in our hair. And his brother - that one is a real thorn in my side..." Morningside's eyes flashed darkly at the mention of the elder Holmes. "Yes, I think it's best if you remove your son from that _relationship_ as Jim calls it. Your boy may not know anything, but any connection to you is one to me, and that Holmes kid has a knack for ferreting out secrets."

Hamish nodded obediently "You want I should take care of this kid boss -?" 

"NO." Jim snarled at him, all semblance of humanity gone from his face, leaving only animalistic rage. He crowded into Hamish's space, forcing him to cringe against the desk. "You. Do. _Not_. Touch. Holmes."

Morningside placed his finger tips together and looked at the ceiling, as though praying for patience. "Aaaas Jim says, Hamish, hands off the Holmes boy. Your offer is extremely kind, but there is already a plan in motion, that should keep both Holmes' quite occupied for some time..." Hamish said nothing, merely edging away from a rabid looking Jim.

Morningside clapped his hands together briskly and stood, shoving his heavy chair back with a groan. "Now, I will happily give you directions to the Holmes residence Watson, the sooner you remove your boy from their acquaintance the better. But first, would you mind giving us a demonstration of this "Tip- toeing" method you described? Mr.Prince is waiting below..."

A vicious grin split Hamish's face, joy sprung up in his heart at the chance to ply his old craft once more. "It will be my pleasure, sir." _John will keep a while. And after all, this will serve as a decent warm up..._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John spun around on the stool for the hundredth time, watching the ceiling whirl above him. He and Sherlock had been sitting in the shed for the past three hours, tossing out theories, analyzing and reanalyzing the evidence, cursing Neil Lestrade for kicking them out of the case. He had gone as far as sending them home with a police escort, to be sure they didn't try to do any investigating on their own.

After a time Sherlock had fallen silent, muttering something about a mind palace, and now stood motionless in front of his chalkboard. His chin was down, his brow furrowed as his lips moved soundlessly. John sighed and puffed his hair off his forehead, spinning around once more. He had homework he could be doing right now . As much as Sherlock fascinated him, watching him do nothing was growing rather dull... He was forced to stop spinning as a pair of thin arms wrapped around his waist. "That," Sherlock muttered in his ear "is incredibly distracting. Can't you be still for even five minutes Johnny Boy?"

"It's been much more than five minutes, Sherlock." John retorted, turning to face the thin genius. "You haven't moved from that spot for the past _hour_."

"Mm, has it really been that long?" He nodded skeptically - this boy was so lost in his own head sometimes, it was a miracle he knew what day it was. Wait, did he know what day it was?...

"Look, Sherlock, not that this isn't gangs of fun, but I've got homework to do, and my Mum wasn't too cheery this morning. I ought to be getting home."

Sherlock nodded. "You may as well, I've got to untangle this mess somehow, and you aren't any kind of help just sitting there thinking."

"Ta, mate."

"What?" Sherlock looked confused, he clearly didn't realize how insulting he could be sometimes. John just smiled and shook his head. "C'mon you daft bugger, walk me out." He grabbed his bike from beside the door and walked it out of the so-called shed. The sun was setting as he turned to look at Sherlock, who leaned casually in the door frame, looking as tousled and lovely as ever. "Look, Sherlock.... thanks. Today was, unreal. I've never felt so..."

"Happy?" Sherlock suggested. John blushed and nodded. "Don't mention it John. As I said, you can't live your life in fear, it's about time you came out of the shadows." John felt a hopeful surge in his chest at the idea of living honestly and openly, with no fear of hurt or judgment from anyone, for any reason. Shyly, he stood on tip-toe and gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek. A dark eyebrow rose, and suddenly strong hands dragged John into a singing, burning kiss. John felt joy blooming in his chest at such a brazen act, kissing like this right out in the open. Then - he heard the screeching of breaks and the slam of a car door. "OI!" a roar came from behind him, and he turned just in time to get a punch to the face. He staggered back against Sherlock, staring wide-eyed into his fathers ruddy face. "Oh, you've done it this time John. It's all gone ta piss now..." His father glowered at him, eyes full of unadulterated rage. "In the car." He growled. "Now." John stumbled away from Sherlock, trudging towards the car, his limp returning with a vengeance. 

Hamish stared at Sherlock for a minute, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he simply said "Keep your filthy hands off my son, or it will be the worse for 'im. Even as it is, I promise you he'll wish he weren't born by the time I'm through." Then he turned swiftly on his heel and stomped to the car. Sherlock lunged after him, managing to land a solid punch to Hamish's shoulder, before unseen hands restrained him. He flailed, turning to see men in black suits and sunglasses holding him tight. _Mycroft!_ He jerked his head to look up at his brothers window, not surprised to see a pear shaped silhouette watching. He roared wordlessly at the figure, as he watched the car scream out of the drive, taking with it the person he cared for most in the world, and a man who's every move showed he intended to take that boy apart, piece by bloody piece.

Mycroft watched through the window as all hell broke loose below. He saw Hamish arrive and deck his son, saw him turn his back on Sherlock - _Surprising_ he thought, _I thought he'd try to kill him, like the last one._ He saw Sherlock running after Hamish, and gave the signal to his men to move in before Sherlock could get hurt. _I warned you "Johnny boy"_ he thought,smirking at Sherlocks ridiculous pet name. _I gave you every chance to walk away..._ Mrs. Hudson came in with tea, and yelped when she heard an angry wordless roar from outside. Shuffling to the window, she stood next to him, watching the car speed down the road and Sherlock fight his men, taking three of them down before they used a syringe to tranquilize him. "Oh Mycroft, what have you done?!" She breathed sadly. Mycroft shrugged and turned to his desk, he had a mass of paper work to do. "As always, Mrs. Hudson, I did what was necessary."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BA-BA-BA-BOOM!  
> So, yeah. Shit is about to get real. The next couple chapters will not be easy, and I'm afraid it's going to live up to it's rating. I try not to make it too angsty though... well, not really.... anyway, hope you guys enjoyed. I am definitely in heinous bitch mode now. I kinda wanna throa a chair through a window - just for the hell of it. I think it would feel really good. Buuuuuut, we can't have everything can we? Alas, alack, and woe is me. right, pity party OVER.  
> Thank you a million times over to anybody who reads my crazy shit, and I grant you one soul cookie for every Kudos, bookmark, hit and slightly amused grin you give this fic. As Hall and Oates would saY: "YOU MA-AKE MY DREAMS COME TRU-UE HOO-HOO HOO-HOO A-HOO-HOO!!" If you've never heard that song, look. it. up.  
> I command thee. 
> 
> I think that's it. CIAO BABES! <3


	11. Tribulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, John....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here we go again. Serious warnings up front Children. This chapter ain't pretty, at all. I tried to keep it pretty light, but I needed to get across how much of a futnucker Hamish really is. soooo fasten seat belts, cause it's gonna be a bumpy ride!
> 
> WARNING: ABUSE/VIOLENCE, ANGST TO THE NTH DEGREE
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Hannah, whose birthday is today!! I promised this would be posted today and I have succeeded, though it's rather late - cutting it close kiddo. (sowwy DX)
> 
> On a side note, I wish to state that it is incredibly hard to type when a cat is sitting on your wrists. Or on you keyboard. My nose is running like crazy, and I'm sneezing nonstop from all the cat hair that's been shoved up my nose. I typed lying on my bed, so he's right in my face. Little shit. Ah well, once more unto the breach and all that jazz. If you see any mistakes PLEASE let me know, the little shit has been stomping on my keyboard all night, and I don't know if I caught all the jibber-jabber he added to this chap.
> 
> A quadrillion and seven thanks to my dear cowriter the Doc, as always. Absolutely no thanks to my frickin little shit of a cat, who just stomped all over my key board and fucked everything up. 
> 
> Not beta'd, not britpik'd, I own nothing - fuck he's sitting on my hands again @#$)!@$%^&^**

John shivered as he awoke lying on cold concrete. He knew in a moment, from the smell of damp and the darkness, where he was. His father had always had a penchant for working in basements. He sat up quickly, then groaned as his head throbbed. Of course, Dad had clocked him as soon as they got in the house. He had caught a flash of his mothers terrified, bruised face then - nothing. Gingerly, he leant back against the rough cinder block wall behind him, closing his eyes. He thought back, thinking back on how he had come to be here. _Of course_ his father had come looking for him. _Of course_ had arrived just as John had made his fatal mistake. His life was just guaranteed to be that particular kind of coincidental hell.

He cringed forward, burying his face in his hands. How could he have been so stupid?! Taking chances, getting sloppy. _Of Course_ he'd been caught, he'd been foolish, reckless - _Idiot!_ He clenched his hands in his hair, wrenching at the roots. _Sherlock! Fucking Sherlock!_ He should never have gotten so close to him! He had told himself over and over and over to stay away - but had he listened? _OF COURSE not! Because you're A FUCKING IDIOT!_ Everything had been sunshine and daisies, solving crimes, snuggling in cars, not giving a thought to the consequences of his actions. Inevitably, John the idiot had gotten too close to the fire, and now he was burned. _Burning._

Now his father knew, without a doubt, that John was more than friends with Sherlock Holmes, and what would he do? Johns breath froze in his lungs. “ _What happened to James will not happen to Sherlock._ ” Mycroft’s voice echoed in his mind. _Da couldn't... He can't.... He wouldn't! ..._ His brain stuttered wildly at the thought. They had just gotten settled, just gotten a new life away from all the sins of the past. Of course his father had gotten involved with the local crime syndicate, but that was to be expected. But he wouldn't commit murder. Not when things were going so well. He shivered. _Enough John, be strong. You just have to be strong, and it will be alright. He wouldn't dare lay a finger on Sherlock. This isn't London, people would notice, people would know. And besides, you swore. You swore you would never let it happen again. It won't be like James..._

_But What could he do?!_ John began to hyperventilate as memories flooded in, clogging his mind. _Sparking green eyes that followed him wherever he was in the garage , strong tawny arms that changed tires and shoved him away to turn the wrench tighter than he ever could._ James had been beautiful, strong, and funny, with an Irish accent that had any girl right where he wanted them. But he never _had_ wanted them, as he told John that fateful day. He had only wanted him, just him, and he didn't care what anyone said, what anyone might do to him. There had been that moment, that incandescent moment when lips had met, and all had been right with the world. Then everything burned.

John shuddered, clutching at his shoulder as he remembered the bullet ripping through, like fire in his flesh. The roars and shouts and screaming of an ambulance. Then darkness. When he had finally awakened, his father had been there, cleaning his handgun. The gun, his father promised, had gotten revenge that same night. John hadn't believed him, refused to accept his father had committed such an atrocity. But his father had proof. There had been newspaper articles and a ragged, blood soaked handkerchief. And it was all his fault.

Panting gasping sobs ripped through him. he tried to stop them, tried to hold it in, but they leaked through clenched teeth, sounding like ripping paper. _Strong John_ , James had whispered to him. _You are always so strong. You have to be, to get through this life. And you will be, I know you will._ He tried, God, he _tried_! But it was so hard, so incredibly hard to keep going, keep living, when he spent his life on a knifes edge, knowing he was doomed to fall.

_It was only a matter of time..._ he admitted to himself. He was destined to do this again. He was destined to fall desperately, stupidly, for another boy. It wasn't a choice, and he couldn't fight it, it was simply who he was. But he could have stopped himself from acting on it. He hadn’t. He was weak. And now he would pay for it.... 

The sobs came harder and harder, his entire body shook as the memories and self loathing spun his brain. Desperately, he threw his head back - and accidentally slammed his head back against the wall. Pain exploded, he saw stars, but it blocked all other thoughts for a moment. All there was was pain, physical pain, the kind of pain he could deal with. He felt a warm wet trickle down the back of his neck - _idiot_ , he’d drawn blood. It didn't matter, there was only pain; thick, cloying pain. And it was a simple pain that distracted from all else, released him from the frantic spinning of his mind. 

_If Sherlock could see how weak you truly are..._ He would hate John. Good. That would be for the best, that would keep Sherlock away, keep him safe. He ached at the thought of Sherlock hating him, but he'd deserve it, wouldn't he? He'd deserve every burning scrap of pain he got. Because it was _all. His. Fault._

Johns mind flew down yet another dark path, fingernails dug into his skin, trying to calm his screaming mind. But it wasn't enough, wasn't enough, wasn't enough - at that moment the door at the top of the stairs flew open. Blinding light flooded the basement for a moment, and John saw nothing but dancing spots. The door slammed shut, then came the _Clomp, clomp,clomp_ of his father coming down the stairs.Terror seized him and a wild, insensible grin spread across Johns face. _This is gonna hurt._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock strode the length of his bedroom, snarled at the wall, then turned back, stomping the other direction. He had been trapped for the past four hours _I am going to KILL Mycroft!_ His stupid men in black had tranqued him - TRANQUED HIM! He had woken an hour later with a splitting headache, and men posted outside his door and both his windows. Of course his first thought had been John. He had to get to John - who knew what his father was going to do him?! He had observed enough to know that Hamish Watson was a very dangerous man. It was clear from a hundred little clues that he had been an enforcer in a gang, and was still very much in practice. John had a _bullet wound_ for God’s sake! If his father had _shot_ him before, then it was only the tip of the iceburg. Images sprang up in his mind - John broken and bruised, John bloodied and screaming, John pale and cold… “NO!” He roared, taking a wild leap out his window, landing cat-like in the tree from below. He descended quickly, and actually managed to sprint a couple yards before he was tackled to the ground, as had happened the six times previously.

He was handcuffed and two men grabbed him by the elbows, lifting him back into the house with ease. Naturally, he kicked up a row, so they called a man - who was roughly the size of a small garden shed - to haul him in a fireman’s lift back through the house. They passed Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, the garden shed nodding courteously. “Oh dear, dear, dear.” She tutted. “What a mess you’ve gotten into Sherlock. Nevermind deary, I’ll bring up some tea.”

“Bugger tea.” Growled Sherlock, who was currently staring at an enormous black-clad arse. Mrs.Hudson just tutted again and put on the kettle.

Sherlock was unceremoniously dumped in his room once more. He barely had time to flash a rude hand gesture before the door was slammed on his face. He heard the lock click and swore in six different languages. Angrily he collapsed on the bed, trying desperately not to panic. _Why_ did Mycroft do this to him?! What earthly reason could he have to prevent Sherlock from helping John. Mycroft must know what kind of a man Hamish Watson was - he _knew_ what he was capable of! - _Ah. I see. Stupid, overprotective buggering prat._ Mycroft didn’t want him hurt - the stupid fat arse assumed he was totally unable to take care of himself - _ridiculous_. How many idiots had he beaten over the years? How many gangs had he taken down single-handed?! He was a match for Hamish Watson. 

But he couldn’t do anything when he was trapped here! For the first time in a long time he was utterly useless, totally incapable of action. And it was killing him. He resumed pacing , one name repeating over and over again in his mind. He thought over everything he knew of his remarkable Johnny boy. He was smart, strong, tough when necessary. He packed a serious punch, and didn’t take shit from anyone - _Except his father._ Sherlock growled. Why was that?! John could easily take the old bastard down. Sherlock knew he had the strength and the bulk, so he must lack the will. But he _knew_ John. He was fiercely protective of those he loved, how could he allow harm to come to his mother and sister? Granted, Harry was never as marked up as John, so maybe he protected the at home, took the pain for himself. Sherlock cringed - his stupid, selfless John. 

He thought of the pain that hid in those baby blue eyes, and old words floated up to him “ _Some things are hidden for a reason…_ ” Yes, but what reason?! Why would John hide anything from him? _Perhaps he’s ashamed_ perhaps…. that was an idea. Maybe that also tied into why he never fought his old man. _He’s ashamed and… guilty._ He couldn’t tell why, but for some reason John carried an enormous sense of guilt. _So that’s why he takes it…. he feels he.. deserves it._ Sherlock sighed. _Oh, Johnny boy._ His wonderful, broken Johnny boy. How could he be so strong when his life was such a nightmare?! Sherlock found himself once again awed by the quiet boy with the million secrets. His beautiful, eternal puzzle. An odd swell of emotion came up inside him. _What is this?!_ A flutter in his stomach, a squeezing in his chest - _Maybe indigestion…._

He shook the the feeling away as fear gripped him once more. He thought of all the things that could be happening at the Watson residence. He growled once more and punched the wall, feeling a raging despair he had never before experienced. _JOHN._ What had Sherlock done to him? All because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself in public. He always pushed John too far; and John, calm, peace-keeping person he was let himself be pushed. Why? Because he cared for Sherlock. But Sherlock had not had the same care for him. What pain must he be going through? _John._ Sherlock turned and pressed his back to the wall, staring out the window towards where he knew Johns house lay - even if he couldn’t see. _How can you ever forgive me?_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ringing. White spots. The world spun in confusion. It was like he was underwater, all colors muted, sounds muffled, the world drifting slowly. He heard a voice speak, but couldn't understand it. It spoke again, louder, more insistently. He stared vacantly, not comprehending or caring to comprehend.

John was pulled harshly into reality with a stinging slap across the face. He shook his head like a wet dog, trying to get the ringing out of his ears. He looked around himself, trying to get his bearings, willing the room to stop spinning. He was sitting in a folding chair, his hands tied behind his back, ankles tied to the legs. He was covered in cuts and bruises. He felt wet sticky blood drying on his flesh, his nose was bleeding sluggishly. His head ached, his ribs felt broken, really there wasn't a single part of his body that didn't hurt. Finally, his eyes focused on the form that loomed over him. His father had removed his button up shirt, wearing only a white undershirt that was now flecked with blood. The lack of sleeves showed the fact that despite his growing age, Hamish Watson had lost none of his strength. There was brutal power in those arms. They were scarred and tanned, a tattoo of a snake crushing a bleeding heart nestled on his upper right arm, an eternal mark of the gang he had betrayed.

John blinked as rough fingers snapped in his face. "Back with us then, are ya? 'Bout bloody time." Hamish drew up a chair, and sat facing John. "Now, I reckoned this would be a good time for a chat. Your little jaunt into la la land shows I’ve been going a little too hard. Sorry, lad -” Hamish grinned sarcastically “my timing was off. Guess I’m a little outta practice. At the rate we’re goin’, one good whack would have ya down for the count - and we can't have that, can we? We aren't near finished, and you really should be present for the whole session. How else will you learn your lesson?" John wanted to whimper. John wanted to retort. He wanted to sob and plead and say he _had_ learned his lesson, he swore he had! But he knew it would be no good. The "session" would end when his father said it ended, and any attempt to change his mind would fall on deaf ears.

Hamish leant back in his seat, lighting a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, watching John as though he were speculating on the best way to begin. He sighed, allowing a cloud of smoke to billow forth, John's eyes watered slightly. "I won't explain why you're here John. You'd be pretty thick if you didn't know that by now. The thing that does have to be discussed, is what you're going to do about it. What do you think ought to be done, hmm?" John watched his father warily, knowing better than to respond. "Ya see, I don’t care what filthy shite you get up to behind closed doors, Johnny. But you haven’t been behind closed doors, ‘ave you? No, you been frolicking right out in the open, for anyone ta see. And don’t you think they ‘aven’t.” John flinched as his father leaned forward, bringing the cigarette dangerously close to his face. “My new boss, has eyes everywhere, John. Ev-er-y- where.You really think he won’t find out? …. And then what’ll happen ta me, ta my career? What do ya think the big boss of the East coast would say if he found out I had a poofter for a son?” Hamish tapped the cigarette deliberately, allowing the hot ash to fall on on John’s bare chest where his shirt hung open. John hissed, staring up at the ceiling, blinking back the tears that formed

Hamish grabbed him by the jaw, holding tightly enough to bruise. The casual air was gone as he snarled. “I lost everything because of you. My job, my gang, my reputation. I had ta kill one of me own men, just because of your _stupid fag ass_.” He sunk a fist into John’s stomach, relishing the way the boy doubled over. He leant back to take another drag from his cigarette, watching his son wheeze and retch. “ Let me tell ya what your gonna do John. You’re gonna cut all ties with that Sherlock Holmes. I hear you’ve so much as looked at him with those bitch-in-heat eyes, I’ll kill him.” Though still doubled over, John Jerked his head up, staring at his father with horror. His mind was coldly silent at the image of Sherlock, dead on the ground, ruby blood spattering his pale skin. _NO._

_What happened to James will not happen to Sherlock…_

Hamish savored the look on the boys face, knowing he need say nothing else to make his point. John would do anything to keep him from killing another of his filthy little boyfriends. _True,_ He thought wryly, _Morningside said hands off that fucking Holmes kid, but John don’t know that does he?_ He leant forward, the glowing tip of the cigarette hovered less than an inch from the side of John’s neck. He spoke quietly, running the cigarette up and down John’s neck, never touching, but relishing the way John shivered, stiffened, stopped breathing altogether as he waited for the sizzling pain. “You’re gonna avoid him, ignore him, whatever it takes. You’re gonna start actin’ real butch, Johnny. Beat a kid up, dress less like a priss, maybe get yourself a bird. What was that girl ya had - Mary somethin’?” He watched expectantly, letting a little ash drop. John twitched at the pain and nodded jerkily.

“Right, Mary. Well, I think you’re gonna get real friendly with that little miss. I don’t care if you screw her brains out in the back of the car, but you are gonna make it clear to the world you fancy _ladies_. Anyone thinks otherwise - It’ll be Holmes who pays for it.” Finally, Hamish pushed the cigarette down with precision, crushing the burning tip against a pulsing vein in John’s neck. There was silence for a moment, John stared into amused, cold eyes. He panted heavily through his nose, feeling a hole burning into his flesh, sticky blood oozing. “ _Clear_?” Hamish rapped out. John’s eyelid fluttered and he nodded, not caring that his movement dragged the fiery pain across his neck. Hamish pulled away and stood. He leant down and pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head, then smacked his cheek twice. “Good boy.”

John listened to his father stomp up the creaky wooden stairs. The door slammed, leaving ringing silence. He was still for a moment, then slowly began to shake. It started as light trembling and got worse, increasing until his entire body was gripped by tremors. There were gasping, retching sobs but no tears came, he had none left. He did not hear the door open again, or the light tap-tapping as his mother came hesitantly down the stairs. She rushed to him, kneeling in between his knees, crying as she stared into vacant blue eyes. “John? JOHN!” She took his face gently in her hands, trying to make him focus on her. But there was nothing there. John was lost in his own world, images of the past and imagined images of the future spinning around him. There was nothing but fear and loss and _pain_. 

”Oh John,” She caressed his cheek, fingers probing gently at the various cuts and bruises. She stared, horrified at the amount of damage that had been done to her precious child, her darling John. “ _I’m so sorry._ ” There was nothing else to be said. She flinched as Harry came rushing down into the basement calling “Mom! I I’m home! Dad just left, he looked real happy - he didn’t even say anything about my being gone all weekend. What’s happened? What’s he -”She screeched to a halt, staring at her brothers hunched broken body “done…?” Her terrified eyes met her mothers wet ones. “Is he…?” 

Mrs. Watson sniffed and began untying John. “He’s alive, but his mind's checked out. He’s totally gone, he's not hearing a thing I say." Dropping the ropes, she smoothed johns hair and stared into vacant eyes. "I can’t bring him out this time Harry. It’s worse than last time. Worse than its ever been before.” Harry darted forward and untied Johns hands. 

"It's okay Mum, just give him time. I'm sure he'll snap out of it..." Harry spoke confidently, but there was no real certainty behind it. "What happened?" 

"your father, he caught John with the Holmes boy." Harrys eyebrows rose. "With as in _with him_?" She cringed as her mother nodded sadly. "Oh John..." Both women sat for a moment, then Mrs.Watson stood and wrapped an arm around her sons waist. Harry stood wordlessly and went to his other side.Together, they managed to get him up the stairs and into his room. The next few hours were spent cleaning and bandaging his wounds. Each cried as they worked, all the while trading worried whispers and meaningful glances. 

John remained unresponsive, seeming totally unaware of his surroundings. Eventually, his mother got him to take some sleeping pills, and watched until his tired eyes closed. She tip-toed out of the room , shutting the door quietly behind her. In the kitchen, Harry sat at the worn table, waiting for the kettle to boil. She looked up as her mother came in, smiling tightly. “Alright?”

“For now. I hope this spell doesn’t last too long, people will take notice if he doesn’t go to work or school.” 

“He needs this mum. It’s the only escape he has….” 

“I don’t think it’s an escape, Harriet. More like he’s trapped in his own mind, and can’t find a way out again.”

Harry was silent, standing as the kettle screamed. Pouring out she said “This can’t go on Mother. He’ll kill us all before he’s done.”

The older woman nodded tiredly. “I know, I know. I thought… there might be something we can do… but it’s more than our lives are worth to get involved.” 

“It’s more than our lives are worth _not_ to Mum! Whatever drastic measure you have up your sleeve, now is the time to use it. Da’s goin’ off the deep end! He’s never hurt John this badly before,, and if he keeps on goin’...” They both shuddered, clutching their mugs for some meager comfort. 

Mrs. Watson sighed, rubbing her face. She spoke tiredly. “Alright Harry, you’re right. As you say, he's getting worse, who knows what he'll do next. We’ve nothing to lose. Get me my journal would you? You know where it's hidden?" She sighed as Harry scuttled out of the room. “It’s time to make some calls.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John woke sometime later. It was dark outside, but his entire body screamed as his turned to look out. He fell back and lay where he was, watching the cold moonlight that streaked across his ceiling from the window. Reel after reel of Sherlock played in his mind. His mind flickered back to his conversation with Mycroft. “ _What happened to James will not happen to Sherlock…_ ”

And what had been his response? “ _Do you honestly believe I would ever allow that to happen again? Truly? I swore I would never allow that to happen again. I stand by my word. I would die before allowing something like that to happen to anyone, and I would die a thousand times for Sherlock._ He gave a short huffing laugh, then winced as pain shot through his ribs. That declaration sounded so melodramatic in hind sight, yet it was totally true. His mind went back to his fathers list of demands. _Avoid Sherlock, ask Mary to go steady…._ These would hurt John terribly - they would burn Sherlock, he had no doubt. It was very likely Sherlock would come to hate him, and that in turn would destroy John. Well then, so be it. He may hate John, but he would be alive, and that was all that mattered. John would keep his vow. _I’ll protect Sherlock, whatever it takes._ He wiped away a tear that had escaped and run down his cheek. _Whatever it takes_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Angst. 
> 
> It's almost over the top, but I love it anyway. And the fun is only getting started. Tehre won't be much violence, but lots of good old fashioned drama :D
> 
> Thanks so much to anyone who actually reads these, it really is wonderful of you. Thanks for every comment, they are so sweet and encouraging. Also - WE ARE ALMOST TO THREE HUNDRED KUDOS HOW FRIGGIN AWESOME IS THAT?!?!?!?!?!?!? not that awesome I know. But it's a big deal ta me - so shut your pie-hole. Just kidding dahling, you know I adore you!
> 
> Welll, I gotta blow my nose, There is cat hair EVERYWHERE. Ciao babes!


	12. Broken Insufflation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I. Am so. So sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so, so so so, so so so so, so so-so, so so sooooooooooooo sorry!!!! I know I am crazy late AND I AM TRULY REPENTENT!! I'll try to be back on schedule I SWEAR!! It's just - it was my birthday last Saturday, and a four day weekend and my co-author couldn't help write this chapter and all hell broke loose and I - eh- uh-augh.... I sowwy.
> 
> anyway - here you are. more angst. you know you love it. I like this chap, though it's kinda short. I swear the next one will be longer and be on time. Hopefully. urrrrrrrgh T_T
> 
> I love you, i'm sorry. Ooh ooh - guess what. As of right now this fic has 199 kudos! that means ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY NINE PEOPLE read this and were like "hey, this is mildly entertaining, and it doesn't totally suck - Click!" I just... wow. actually wow. I might cry. 
> 
> while I sob, you can sob with john and Sherlock, they're certainly much more interesting.  
> Not britpik'd, and I don't own jack.

Sherlock sat sideways on his motorcycle, watching cars and busses pull into the school parking lot. His shoulders were tense as his icy eyes flicked back and forth. He'd been waiting for half an hour, praying for the beat-up Watson tank to arrive. His leg bounced as he tapped his heel against the asphalt, lighting a cigarette with unsteady hands. John would show up, he always showed up! He cared more about good grades than his health. If he didn't... that meant things were really, _really_ bad. John could be bedridden, maybe even hospitalized. Though that was unlikely, abused people rarely wanted to expose the abuse. John would take a lot before even considering getting medical attention. _But Hamish can give out a lot..._ He tensed as his mind ran over all the possibilities - Hamish could have beaten his son into a bloody pulp, carved him up with a knife, perhaps even ...killed him? _No. He wouldn't._ Sherlock was sure of that. Like his son, Hamish Watson was no fool. People would notice if John disappeared, and while abuse was very often ignored, murder was a different story. Sherlock sighed, sending smoke billowing outward. John was alive - _But in what condition?! I cannot bear this uncertainty.... That's it -_ He threw his cigarette down and threw a leg over his bike. If John wasn't going to show, Sherlock would just go to his house and see for himself. He had to know John was alright, he _had to know_.

He zipped up his jacket, feeling some tension leave him. He was glad to finally have something to do. However his hand froze on the key as his Irregular Clara pulled into the parking lot in her pink Cadillac. Clara _never_ brought her car to school, she was terrified of vandals, or someone trying to steal it. _Not that anyone would try to steal that hideous thing_ Sherlock snorted. But here she was, and the most important thing that had caught Sherlock's eye was _Harry Watson_ sitting in the seat next to her. _Where is John?!_ He remained still for a moment, watching Clara park. Then he threw himself off his bike, striding quickly over to where they were getting out. Clara's eyes widened as she saw her boss approaching. "Sh-Sherlock... um-" He waved an irritated hand at her and spoke straight to Harry, who was watching him warily. "Where is he?"

She shifted uncomfortably, throwing a glance at Clara. "Where's -uh...who?" Sherlock's eyes flashed.

"Do not play with me, Harriet." He growled, suddenly looking like the menacing gang boss he was - an image that had been toned down since meeting John.

Harry shrank back, but held his gaze firmly. "John's at home, he's not well."

"How not well?" the growl was even lower now, more menacing.

" 'He can barely move' not well!" Harry snapped, "No thanks to you." 

Sherlock recoiled, stung. "It's... is it really that bad?" He asked more softly, terror and remorse twisting in his stomach. Harry saw the guilt in Sherlock's face and felt bad for blaming him, it wasn't really his fault. "Yes, it's...horrible. He can't move - he can't breathe without pain. And he was catatonic for a while, really scared Mum and me." She held up a hand as Sherlock flinched -" He's out of it now, but Mum's keeping a close eye on him." She shivered. "We just hope dad doesn't come back for another round. I know John can't take it-" Sherlock whirled away with a snarl, storming towards his bike. "Where are you going?!" Harry called, running after him, Clara hot on her heels. 

"To John! Someone's got to be there to stop that bastard."

"No!" Harry caught his wrist with a surprisingly strong grip. He turned back to her thunderously, but he froze when he saw her wide, frightened eyes. He said nothing, one dark brow raised. "Please- please, Sherlock, don't! You'll only make everything so much worse. John's... He's not himself. And I don't know how he'd react if you showed up. And if Da caught you there -" Clara wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder as she let out a hitching gasp. Though she didn't actually cry, her eyes were glistening dangerously. When she spoke, her voice was desperate and pleading. "Just- please, Sherlock... Please leave us alone. For John's good as much as yours. _Please_ "

Sherlock stared into wide eyes that were eerily similar to Johns. A war waged in his mind. He desperately wanted to be with John, comfort him, protect him. He _needed_ to see the damage with his own eyes, see for himself how bad it was - then he would know how close to losing John he'd really been. And he could fix it, fix everything. But, if what Harry said was true, he'd do more harm than good going to John right now. He sighed heavily. He had never felt this anxious before, he was always in control of every situation. But now, with John... He hardly knew which way was up. Yanking a hand through his dark curls, he nodded tensely. Harry smiled tightly, letting some of the tension leave her shoulders. "Thank you." He nodded again, then turned to stomp towards the school, feeling utterly lost and useless. Emotions really were such inconvenient things. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later Greg forced Sherlock through the side door, dragging him away from his third fight of the day. He barked at Bill to help him; and together they managed to get him to the parking lot, though he flailed and fought them all the way. With a grunt, Greg shoved Sherlock towards the Hound. "Just get outta here Sherlock! You're gonna kill someone before you're done."

Bill smirked. "Not that I wouldn't love to see you beat the tar out of Moran, Boss, but you can't check on John if you're sitting in the police station."

Sherlock flicked his clear gaze towards Bill. "What are you talking about Wiggins?"

Both Bill and Greg snorted. "You only get in fights when you're stressed..." Bill started.

"And lately you're only stressed about things concerning John." Greg finished for him. " I dunno what happened, you two were as thick as thieves the past couple of days, but John not showing today means something musta happened." Sherlock was surprised by Greg's perceptiveness, usually he didn't notice what was right in front of him - _Though I suppose I've been rather obvious._ He admitted to himself. He eyed the two greasers and stayed silent, not wanting to admit they were right. 

Greg rubbed his forehead exasperatedly. "look, Sherlock, whatever's going on, it's been bugging you all day -"

"I could see the gears turning in your head!" Bill chuckled.

Greg shot him a look but kept going. "Yeah, what Bill said. John's absence is bugging you, so why don’t you just swing by his place and check up on him? I'm sure it'll ease your mind. There's only twenty minutes left in school, not that you care either way." Sherlock watched Greg, considering as he lit a cigarette. He had promised Harry he would stay away....but Greg was right - Sherlock had been going mad all day, turning the situation over and over in his mind, getting tenser by the minute. The fights had helped to blow off steam, but the tension just built right back up again! Made worse by the niggling guilt he felt over fighting - John really wouldn't approve. John... Finally he grunted, sliding onto his bike. He revved it up and, without a backward glance, roared out of the parking lot. The two Irregulars stood looking after him for a moment, then settled in Greg's flip-top to wait for the others.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Emilie Watson puttered around the kitchen. Occasionally she cast nervous glances at her husband, who was sprawled on the living room couch, snoring. Hamish had come home an hour ago, demanded a cup of tea, and promptly fallen asleep. There was no sign of him waking up anytime soon, but she kept a sharp eye out all the same. John would not survive another beating, so she had to be ready to subdue her husband if he looked likely to give a repeat performance. She hefted a cast iron pan, testing the weight. _This will do nicely._ There'd be hell to pay if she actually knocked her husband unconscious, but she'd accept any consequence if it kept John safe. 

Her head snapped up as a rumbling came down the street. Through the window over the sink, she saw a boy with wild dark curls pull up on a motorcycle. Sherlock Holmes. _No, no, no - for God's sake, NOT NOW!!_ She shook her head wildly at him through the window. He seemed to have seen her, because he sat back on his bike and tilted his head questioningly. Silently, she jabbed a finger over her shoulder and mouthed " _Hamish_..." He didn't seem to get it, shaking his head with brows furrowed. She cast around for something to write on, and her eyes lighted on an empty beer bottle. He was a smart boy, he was sure to understand that. glancing over her shoulder, she held the bottle up and jabbed her thumb once more towards her sleeping husband. Sherlocks face darkened but seeing the desperation in her gaze, nodded. He revved up and drove away, flying like a bat out of hell.

She huffed quietly. _Well I'm certainly not letting John get on that bike with him again. Not if he drives like that._ Then she chuckled sadly, who was she kidding? After all that had happened John wouldn’t touch Sherlock with a ten foot pole. Not to punish Sherlock, or because he blamed, but to protect him. His father had... had done terrible damage two years ago, John had barely had time to recover – he couldn’t bear another death. He tried to hide how much pain he was in - physical and emotional, but she was no fool. Her boy was old and weary before his time, with a weight on his shoulders no man should have to bear. 

She flinched as Hamish snored. She glared at his sleeping form. She couldn’t remember how he had convinced her to marry him. It didn’t matter now, whatever he had been all those years ago, he was a monster now. She and both of her children lived in constant fear of injury, or even death. But that wouldn’t last forever, she’d taken steps. It would take time – who knew How long? – but there was light at the end of the tunnel. Of course, she’d made a deal with the devil, but for the first time in years, she had hope. She just had to protect her children, and bide her time. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning found Sherlock waiting in the parking lot once more. He didn’t know how he would get through the day without committing murder if John didn’t show. His heart leapt into his throat as the Watson tank pulled into the parking lot. He flew from his bike, nearly sprinting to where he saw John Watson parking the beat up yellow car. As he approached, he saw John get out of the car and open the door for his sister. Sherlock slowed, taking in the wreck that had been John. He looked as though he’d been hit by a bus. A bus that had then backed over him and repeated the process several times. A black eye, swollen lip, bruises on his forehead and cheek and chin. Sherlock catalogued each mark, noting how they’d been made- and swearing Hamish Watson would receive the same in very short order. There were several scratches and what looked like… cigarette burns on John's neck. _Dear God I’ll kill him._ He could tell from the way John moved that everything must hurt. It was a miracle he was even capable of movement...

Sherlock strode forward confidently, intent on pulling John aside and speaking to him - asking what had happened. But as his eyes met the baby blues, a strange expression crossed John’s face. _Angry? No. Frightened? Not quite. Hmmm, almost...apologetic. Perhaps apprehensive or… like he’s bracing himself for something unpleasant…_ John held his gaze for a minute, then abruptly turned his back to Sherlock. escorting his sister towards the school. _Wait…what?!_ Sherlock watched astonished as John went into the school without so much as a backwards glance. John had just… snubbed him. Out and out _ignored_ him. _What. The hell._

Sherlock spent the morning chasing John around the school, feeling more angry and more confused by the minute. Every time he approached John, every time he tried to speak to him, John would start a conversation with someone else, ignore him, or just simply walk away. _What was going on?!_ Not two days ago, he and John had been getting hot and heavy in the back of Greg’s car, and now John wouldn’t even speak to him?! Not only that, there seemed to have been a total switch in personality. John got buddy-buddy with the jocks, talking about joining the football team - _Since when did he care about sports?!_ John avoided the rest of the Irregulars and even changed seats in classes to avoid the lot of them.

While stalking him after second period, Sherlock came upon John leaning over Mary, pressing her into a locker. He backed around the corner and listened, glaring at a boy who gave him an odd look. “So...” He heard John say, in an odd flirty tone that didn’t suit him at all. “It’s settled then? You're my girl?” Sherlock's heart sank as he heard Mary giggle, and the unmistakable sounds of kissing. John hadn’t…. he wouldn’t … he and Sherlock were- well, not a _couple_ , but they were… _something_ weren’t they?! He was so lost in thought he missed the entire third period, and only came back to himself when a student hall monitor jabbed him with a yard stick. He left the yard stick broken and the hall monitor bloody, and headed to class. He was absolutely overwhelmed. 

At lunch, John sat with Mary, holding her hand and being so lovey-dovey it made Sherlock positively boil with disgust and jealousy. Word had spread that they were officially going steady. But It wasn’t a rumor this time, it was actually true. A wave of rejection and anger and grief had swept through him, making everything go quiet. He’d thought… he’d thought they were, well... _friends_. The way John had looked at him, had talked to him, had _kissed_ him… he thought there was something, thought John really cared. _Of course he does, idiot!_ he snarled inwardly _This obviously has something to do with his father beating the shit out of him. Daddy hates the gay son, so Johnny has to play the good little straight boy now. Of course he cares, of course it was all real, he just can’t show it. Wasn’t this what he was afraid of from the very beginning - that people will find out? He’s just scared, hurting. He’ll come round..._ But while everything he told himself was logical and made sense, he couldn’t ignore the aching in his chest, the strange burning behind his eyes that came as he watched John kiss Mary sweetly on the cheek. Watched him smile at a cute remark. _That’s my smile…_ he thought weakly. _That’s my John._

~~~@~~~

Jim watched Sherlock stare angrily at John and Mary. He’d known giving Hamish Sherlock’s address was a risk, but he also knew it would get results. And what perfect results! John was avoiding Sherlock like the plague, and Sherlock was clearly spinning out of control. The poor genius had no grasp of his own emotion, and he would need a guiding hand. James Moriarty had one such hand. This was his chance, and he would seize it with both fists. He giggled to himself, ignoring the way Anderson scooted away from him nervously. Sherlock looked so broken, staring forlornly at John. He was kinda cute when he was hurting… He shook his hand. Enough staring, there'd be time enough for that when the gorgeous genius was his. Now there were plans to be made. Sherlock had grown very cold towards Jim over the past few weeks, but Jim knew the perfect way to warm him up...

~~~@~~~

By Chemistry class, the anger and jealousy and hurt had bubbled to a fever pitch inside Sherlock. He almost screamed when he heard John asked for his seat to be changed. “I have trouble seeing the board.” He explained smiling a charming, utterly fake smile. Sherlock kept calm, but spent the rest of the class burning a hole in the back of that perfect blond head with his eyes. He knew John could feel it, saw the way he squirmed and shifted. After the bell rang John left in hurry, but Sherlock was hot on his heels, determined to find out once and for all what was going on.

He caught up with John in an empty side hall and grabbed him roughly, slamming him against the lockers with the bang. “ _What the HELL are you playing at Johnny boy?!_ ” He hissed, twisting his fists into the front of Johns pullover. He saw that strange expression cross John’s face again but refused to back off - he needed answers. Emotion flickered in John’s eyes, then his face went strangely blank. 

In an odd, dead tone John said “Let me go Sherlock, or I’ll have to shout and call a teacher.” Sherlock was so taken aback by the emotionless voice that he did so. “What’s going on John?” He asked, his voice rough with emotion. “Why are you acting like this?” 

John sighed and straightened his jumper, refusing to make eye contact. “It was pointed out to me that I was spending too much time with unsuitable friends.” He spoke in that same, monotonous voice. “You have a reputation, Sherlock, you get into trouble. I can’t afford to get pulled into anything if I want to go to college. Especially not now that I have a girlfriend. There’s Mary to consider - she may find our friendship inappropriate. Besides... I don’t want to be seen with you, everyone knows your a..." John stopped. No. That was going to far. He needed to hurt Sherlock, but that was simply sick. "A what, John?” Sherlock asked, crowding into John's space, inhaling the smell of his John. He relished the closenes after what had felt like an eternity of separation. At the same time he braced himself , he knew what was coming - John really was taking this charade too far. "Go on John. Say it."

"A- a filthy queer..." John almost whispered the words , blushing to the roots of his hair, feeling a burning shame blaze inside. He heard his father's voice in his head saying the exact same words as he sunk his fists into him again and again. He felt like throwing up. He was so low, he ought to crawl in the dirt. Blue eyes flicked up, watching to see how Sherlock would react. 

Sherlock felt like a hand had squeezed his lungs. He stepped back, emotions exploding inside him - emotions he didn’t understand and couldn’t handle. “Well fuck you too.” He muttered. He jerked around, desperate to walk away. He had to get away, had to think. He _didn’t understand._ Why did everything seem to be collapsing? It wasn't a big deal, it was just John. His John. His John who had quite pointedly and hypocritically wounded him in the foulest way possible. 

“Sherlock!” sparks jumped under his skin as John clutched at his hand. He turned back, wanting to snarl, but froze at the agony and tears he saw in John’s eyes. “Look I - I didn’t mean that. But this - this -” He squeezed Sherlock's hand like a lifeline. “This isn’t meant. I’m not - I’m no good - you…” He dragged Sherlock to him and held him close, kissing the hollow under his ear and whispering "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, terribly sorry..." Sherlock clutched John's hand and felt a drop of relief. John was still his, even if he tried not to be. John suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing and jerked back, looking horrified. He gasped and dropped Sherlock's hand and began to back away. “No, no, no. You can’t - I can’t let you. He'll - both of us and I can't I _can't_! Sherlock… just … stay away. _Please_.” He begged, using almost the same words his sister had the previous day. “Please, for your own good, just _stay away_ from me.”

He left Sherlock standing in the hallway, once more feeling utterly lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go. Despair. I hope you liked it, though I doubt it was worth the wait. :( Next update will be better alll round I swear.  
> A million cuddles (and gropes for those of you that are into that) to everyone who's taken the time to read this, comment and leave kudos. I really do appreciate it and it means so much to me. This is my first fanfic and to have people actually like it... it's amazing. Next fic I write will have smexy times, I promise. I don't think it's in the cards for this one, but ya never know. Que sera, sera.
> 
> I think that's all, I love you all desperately and with wild abandon! ciao Babe :)


	13. Albatross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here I am, a day late and a dollar short as always. Oh well.  
> Well here you are - more angst. But I swear this is the last one like this, there is most definitely light at the end of the tunnel. Couple words of warning before we get going:  
> Drugs are bad  
> Swearing is used a fair amount in this soooooo sorry not sorry. I swear like a sailor, so my characters do too. ;)
> 
> I am really tired, so no witty banter I'm afraid. I'm up three hours past my bedtime for you people, so I reserve the right to be uncreative in my intro. 
> 
> 1,345,678,987 thanks to my cowriter the Doc, who is the only reason this chap even got done! ANNNND  
> WE HAVE OVER TWO HUNDRED KUDOS HOLY CRAP I AM BARFING RAINBOWS RIGHT NOW!!!! I love you all. If bigamy was legal I'd marry every single one of you.

Weeks passed. Day in, day out, nothing changed. John ignored Sherlock, Sherlock was desperate for John. Sherlock grew weary of the constant emotional nightmare. He lashed out like a tiger with a thorn in its paw, constantly picking fights for anyone who so much as looked at him sideways. He spent more time in detention than he did attending classes. His grades plummeted.

Sherlock was no less intelligent than he was the first day he met John, he just didn’t care about his grades. He didn’t care how many records of assault he had on his file in the office. He didn’t care what anyone thought about him. His deductions came less and less frequently. He stopped observing- What did it matter what other people were doing? There was no case to distract him, his experiments had ceased to interest him. All his mental power had turned inward, his mind churning and whirling trying to understand, out logic the emotion. There were times when he did get a handle on it, and he returned to a semblance of his old cold, clinical self. But it crumbled to pieces the moment John and Mary passed by. The man who once controlled his mental and physical transport so carefully was now reduced to a mental maelstrom.

The Irregulars bore the brunt of their leaders frustration. They spent the week of tiptoeing around Sherlock, pulling him away from fight after fight, and not taking the vicious insults thrown their way personally. On Friday night, a meeting was held in The Lestrade's living room. More than one neighbor looked accusingly out their windows as one after of another of the group arrived. Neil merely smiled as each rang the doorbell and welcomed them in, offering beverages and taking coats. In the end, the living room was occupied by Greg, Mike, Clara, and Bill. Neither Andy nor Sally was present, both having refused to come. They had finally grown tired of Sherlock's antics, and declared they were no longer part of the gang. No tears were shed over the loss. Jim wasn't present simply because he was creepy, and none of the other Irregulars believed he wanted to help Sherlock.

Neil bowed out after a final warning about smoking in the house. "And remember fellas, " He said as he headed to his office- correcting himself as Clara let out an indignant squawk - "And Lady, I may be off duty but I'm still a cop. And I _still_ have a loaded gun!" all the Irregulars snorted and rolled their eyes- they weren't there to cause trouble, there were serious things to discuss.

Greg brought the meeting to order, rapping his knuckles on the coffee table. "Okay guys, what are we going to do?"

Mike shrugged, "What can we do? He's spinning out of control. He nearly killed the Bassick kid, and we all know he's on the dope again. Don't get me wrong, I want to help Sherlock, I just... don't see what we can do." 

Greg watched him intently, surprised. "Wait - You think he's using that stuff again?" 

Mike snorted. "Isn't it obvious? He's testy, but Sherlock isn't a naturally violent person. Yet here he is, at least two fights a day - nasty ones too. The deductions are gone too, he didn't even notice when Andy stole his cigarette's." He nodded solemnly. " He only gets like this when he's on it."

"I don't understand why he takes it." Clara said quietly. "I mean, in the forties it was a like a party favor right? A special occasion. But the way he takes it..."

Greg sighed. "He told me once that it calmed his mind, gave it something to do when he was bored or couldn't focus. But this time, I think he's just trying to find an escape. The drug worked in the past so, he thought it would now. But this is an entirely different kind of problem. Course Sherlock won't realize that. The stupid idiot is totally lost when it comes to emotions."

"I just don't get why he's so torn up!" Mike was exasperated. "I mean I see John’s a good friend but - “

Clara cut him off. “There, ah, a wee bit more than _friends_ Mikey.” 

Mike’s eyes widened “You mean-”

“Yup.” Bill grinned mischeviously.

“Then they-”

“Uh-huh” Greg nodded. “They weren’t quite to the stage of being steadys, but if you ask me they weren’t far off.”

Mike sat for a moment, digesting this new revelation. He was a little uncomfortable. He knew Clara was, well, definitely _not_ interested - he had learned to turn a blind eye. But Sherlock and John, that was hard to swallow. _Well,_ He told himself _They’re still good guys. John’s never been anything but decent to you, he even helped you study for that algebra test. Just, focus on that, and don’t worry about the other stuff, and you’ll be fine._

“But wait a minute!” He said suddenly. “If they’re, um… y-you know, why’s John running around with Mary Morstan?!”

Bill blew a tuft of hair out of his face. “Gooood Question. Any ideas Greg?”

“A few.” Greg spoke slowly, “Whatever happened, it’s clearly what’s triggered Sherlock’s freak out. But in all honesty, that’s not my main worry right now. I’m worried about the cocaine....”

Clara nodded. “Well, you know the quickest way to put a stop to it - Tell his brother.” Immediately three people were shouting at her.

“Are you INSANE?!”

“HELL NO!!!”

“We can’t tell the fat bureaucrat! He’ll send Sherlock to the middle of nowhere -”

“or a _reform school_ -”

“And we’ll never see him again!”

“You can’t possibly think telling that bastard any-”

“Okay - Okay, OKAY!!” Clara roared. “I get it! It was just a suggestion!” Everyone calmed down a bit and Clara continued talking, glaring daggers at the others. “Well since telling the brother is _clearly_ not an option, what do you suggest we do, hm?”

Greg tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We just have to stop him from buying it. Seems the best thing to do right now. Trouble is we don’t where or when he gets it.”

“Set a tail on him.” Bill suggested. “Like we did with that cab driver thing a couple months ago.”

Mikey nodded. “Yeah, that might work. Except he catches on pretty quickly.”

“Guess we’ll just have to be extra careful. And besides, didn’t you say he’s been less observant lately?” They all looked at each other. Though none of them said it, they were really worried about Sherlock. They just wanted their crazy genius leader back. “So, that’s where we’ll start. We’ll take turns following Sherlock over the weekend, see where he’s getting the goods, and go from there.” Greg sighed, this wasn’t going to be fun.

“To tell you the truth,” Mike folded his arms. “I kinda wish John had never moved here.”

Greg thought of the bruises John had, and the dull, dead look he had in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. The poor kid had it bad. “I bet you he does too, Mike.I bet he does too.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John sat in his room, slumped over his desk with his head buried in his hands. He was terribly unhappy. At school he watched Sherlock spiral out of control, seeming to give himself over to his rage. It terrified John, that was not the Sherlock he knew, not the one he cared for so deeply. Sherlock was obviously deeply hurt and had no idea how to deal with it - _But at least he’s not dead,_ John told himself. _You’ve got to hold on to that. At least he’s not dead._ As long as Sherlock was safe, John could deal with his own misery.

And he _was_ miserable. Everyday he fixed on a smile and presented a boy who didn't really exist. He was a lie. His limp returned full force, possibly even worse than it had been before. He hadn't really noticed it was gone until it came back. Sherlock had fixed it, just by being with him. Sherlock.... Sherlock was dealing with this mess in his own way, a way John wished he could. John wanted to fight and skip class and show everyone how absolutely ridiculous everything was. But he couldn't, he had Mary to think about now.

John hid his true feelings by throwing himself into his relationship with Mary. He had told himself so often that he _had_ to love her that he could almost believe he was. But then he'd see Sherlock in the hall, or waiting in the office for yet another conference with the principal, and he remembered how happy he'd been with Sherlock, if only briefly. But he'd given that up. He be would always what had to be done to keep his people safe - _whatever it takes._ If it were only a matter of his own well being, he scream his homosexuality to the skies, and damn the consequences. But there were other people involved, people he'd do anything to protect. _Whatever keeps Da happy keeps Sherlock safe… keeps everyone safe..._

John worried about several things. He worried about his own well-being, but only because his mother and sister would do ridiculous, dangerous things to protect him. He could not allow them to take car of him _They have enough to worry about. And any way, I'm supposed to take care of them._ . He worried about what would happen if his sister or mother stood between him and his father. He couldn't imagine Harry bloodied up the way he had been, it was too terrible to consider. He feared the same for Sherlock. If Sherlock ever came face to face with Hamish, neither would be able to restrain himself. It took Mycroft’s men in black to hold Sherlock down the first time, after all. And Hamish was nearly rabid with hatred for anything connected with his filthy son. Hamish had become a menace. A menace to society, and worse, a menace to the three people John cared about most. John rarely gave a true smile these days, but he could chuckle when thinking of Hamish’s one true love in this world. _The man could drink a pub dry if he had the time. A menace to his bloody liver, that's what he is._ John sobered, frowned. He wished his father would drink himself to death, or have an accident while drunk. Anything to keep him from hurting anyone again. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

”Do you have it, Jim?” asked Sherlock, struggling against the symptoms of his withdrawal.

”Of course, Sherly." Sherlock's lip curled at the nickname. "Right here.” Jim Moriarty pulled a small bag of white powder out of his jacket, holding it so that it was hidden by the outstretched jacket. “Pure grade, guaranteed to please. A soothing balm for any troubled soul.” His tone lilted as though he were hypnotizing Sherlock, waving the little bag slowly back and forth - the snake offering the proverbial apple.

Sherlock had been inches away from putting it away for good - for John's sake. But the events of that Sunday night, and all that had followed drove him to forget about that. Nothing mattered but thathappiness and freedom he felt with John. He never wanted to experience life without it again, but the cocaine at least came close to filling the gap it left …

Jim was glad he could do something to make Sherlock somewhat close to happy. He saw how easily this substance replaced John in Sherlock’s life. Or if not replace hjm, it covered the pain. Made life livable. Though of course, it wasn't the same... But. If Sherlock loved the drug, perhaps he could grow to love its supplier. The mad smile grew wider as white powder disappeared into Sherlocks nose. As long as Jim had the drug, he had the heart broken gang leader in the palm of his hand. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next evening, Sherlock stomped down the huge staircase of the house, and headed toward the kitchen. He slowed as he reached the doorway, poking his head in to see if Mrs. Hudson was around. Nothing. He sighed, and shuffled quickly, pulling on his jacket. “Hold it, _right there_ sir!” He groaned as Mrs. Hudson leapt from the pantry, wielding a broom and a determined look. “Look, Huddy, I’ve got to get to the football game - there’s people expecting me sooo gotta dash -” 

“No you don’t!” She seized him by the collar and with a surprising amount of strength, forced him to sit at the kitchen table. She slammed a plate of sandwiches down on the table. “Eat.” 

“Huddy, I’m really not hungry- “

“EAT.” She almost snarled at him. “I’ll get you some milk. And don’t call me Huddy! It’s Mrs. Hudson or nothing.” She tottered to the Refrigerator, then fluttered her hands as she realized the glasses were all in the pantry for some reason.

“Okay, Nothing. “ Sherlock grumbled, shoving a sandwich into his mouth. 

Mrs. Hudson’s disembodied voice floated out of the pantry “Heard that! Saucy.”

She came back and plunked the glass in front of him, speaking in a would-be casual voice as she poured the milk. “So, how’s John?” Sherlock froze mid-chew, then slumped back. Of course she’d ask that, she'd met John, fussed over him. Bitter anger welled up at the thought of how he had welcomed John into his home, into his family - _That’s what you get. Never should have opened yourself up like that. It’s your own damn fault._

Aloud he said. “Haven't seen him. John’s too busy protecting himself from his father to worry about _me_.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned and adjusted the collar of his leather jacket. “Oh I don’t believe that for a minute.”

Sherlock was shocked into speech. “He’s bloody thrown me over Huddy! He won’t talk to me - Won’t _look_ at me! You should have seen him when he came back to school, looked like he’d been hit by a bus, I wanted to help, but all I get is an “I can’t” and an“ I beg you, stay away.” It’s obvious he’s protecting himself from his nutter of a father - By utterly ignoring me.” He huffed, embarrassed by the outburst, and shoved another sandwich in his mouth. Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Oh, I’ve no doubt he’s ignoring you. I can tell it’s hurt you - you Holmes’ always have felt things so deeply - but I meant I doubt he’s doing it to protect himself. I mean, obviously he’s protecting you.”

Sherlock stared at her. “Me?”

She sat, rubbing her hip. “Of course you! You know what his father did to the last boy John was involved with. Do you really think your honest John would let that happen again? Specially not to you, you only have to see the way he looks at you to know he’s smitten.”

Sherlock blushed, but grabbed on to the first part of the statement. “What last boy? What happened?”

“Ooooh, so you don’t know! I suppose I’m not surprised, I’d not want to spread it around if I were John.”

Would the woman never spit it out?! “Spread. What?”

“Well,,” She leant forward “I can’t say as I know too much, but I was cleaning your brothers office and I happened to see a file with John’s name on it. Did you know his middle name’s Hamish? Bit awful to be named after that brute of father, but otherwise I think it suits John quite well. Well anyway, I’m not one to pry usually, specially not into your brothers private papers - but as I say I saw John’s name. And as I hadn’t seen or heard of him in quite some time I was worried. I mean what with all the hullabaloo and chaos that _dreadful_ night his father came to get him, I knew _something_ was in the air. So I thought I might just have a tiny peep into the file to see if Mycroft had any information on John’s condition. I didn’t find anything of that sort, but I did find what basically amounted to his life story. It really is terrifying, the kind of information your brother can get his hands on. It quite rattles me to think how much he must know. But, as I say John’s history was quite something to read - the life that poor boy has had to lead, oh Sherlock you just wouldn’t believe it! -”

“MRS. HUDSON!” Sherlock bellowed, effectively stopping the flow of words. He took a deep breath and said more calmly “Huddy,I don’t want to kill you; but I will, If you do not get to the point."

She nodded and patted her hair, flustered. “ _Mrs. Hudson_ dearie, please. Well, I couldn’t read it all, as I had the entire top floor to do - but it seems John was involved with another boy, two years ago - when he was still in England. It didn’t say how serious it was, but it did say that it came to a sudden halt. When the boy and his father were shot dead in their garage-”

“Garage?!” Sherlock rapped out.

“Yes dear, John's fella, his father owned a garage, you know for fixing motors and cars and things? He and his son were both found dead there, shot. And while it was never proved, Hamish Watson was suspected of _murdering_ both of them.” She leaned back, rapping her bony knee for emphasis. 

Sherlock sat, lost in thought. Finally, pieces started fitting together. He almost chuckled to himself. _You stupid, bloody fool. John would never be selfish, he's always put others first. Even when he shouldn't._ He thought back on Mrs.Hudson's revelations. _The garage.... So that's John's big secret. Some boy went after John Watson, and got themselves killed for it. No wonder he's got a guilt complex._ He felt a faint tinge of jealousy, though he knew it was ridiculous - the boy was _dead_ for God's sake. But still, he didn't like the thought of someone else touching his Johnny boy, or even catching John's eye. He was nearly sick whenever he thought of John and Mary getting cozy, doing whatever people in relationships do. Of course now that he knew the truth - almost the truth, things were different, now he could understand, could make a plan. He would John back, somehow. If John was doing all this to protect Sherlock, it was unnecessary, ridiculous even. He could take care of himself, and Mycroft would butcher anyone who dared touch him....

It felt like a huge tight knot loosened inside his chest. Things made sense again. Except of course, his own reaction to the situation. In a moment, his mind played over every action he'd taken over the past weeks. He'd acted like a moron, and there was only one thing that could explain the violent reaction he'd had to John's rejection. He was in love with him. He'd said it before, but he hadn't really realized the repercussions of it. He was in love. With John Watson, who was dating Mary Morstan. God, what was he going to do?! The knot tightened again, and he glanced at the clock on the wall.

Well, he knew where to get at least temporary relief. He'd arranged to meet Jim at the football game to buy another couple grams. He stood suddenly, taking a couple swallows of his milk. "Well, thank you for the information Huddy, it's very enlightening." She nodded happily and cleared away his dishes. "Anytime dearie, you go and meet your friends, I'm sure they'll understand if you're a bit late." She called after as he went outside to his motorcycle "And it's _Mrs.Hudson_!" Chuckling, he started the motorcycle , and pulled out.

A figure in a leather jacket nearby also started their car and followed, careful not to be noticed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John and Mary sat in the bleachers, wrapped close together against the cold wind that whipped around the stadium. The crowd around them roared with excitement, the field was about to host _the_ big game between Baker High and MacDonnell Central. The field glowed in the floodlights, highlighting the area where the two teams were warming up. The concession stand was booming.

John shifted subtly, and coughed. "Um, Mary, I just want to say that I've really enjoyed spending time with you. I've had a rough couple of weeks, and I really appreciate the support you given me. I'm proud to call you my girl." John did not make direct eye contact with Mary when he said this. It was a lie and he damn well knew it. He'd never have asked Mary to go steady if it hadn't been for his father, if it hadn't been for Sherlock. Yet here he sat, miserably lying to one of the sweetest girls he'd ever known. She _had_ supportive. And kind, understanding, and he felt like a heel .

Mary squirmed, and bit her lip. "Of course, Johnny. It was the least I could do. After all I... John, I... I love you. You've made me feel so... Happy. Every second we've spent together has been amazing." She leaned in even closer and hugged John. John closed his eyes, trying not to let his horror show. He tried to say it back, but the lie burned his tongue like acid. Instead he said "Me - uh me too." She smiled beatifically, blushing. John felt sick as they turned back to watch the kickoff. _No no no!_ She couldn't love him! They didn't know each other in the least. If she was in love, she loved a shadow, a fake version of John. And John couldn't allow that. It wasn't fair to her. Besides, the only person he could say he was in love with... Was Sherlock. Of course he couldn't admit that out loud, but still, it made it impossible to say 'I love you' to Mary. It was terrible to say something so sweet to the wrong person. Especially when you couldn't stop thinking about the right one .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bill Wiggins had kept an eye on Sherlock all day. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't go to this game unless he was going to meet his cocaine dealer, Sherlock couldn't care less about sports of any kind. He followed him through the crowd during the last quarter until he got to the concession stand. The lines swarmed and merged into a wild crowd, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Bill thought he might have been heading to the back of the stands, where the bathrooms were, but he'd have to cut through the lines to follow. He picked an opening between two large men, who immediately pushed him back, thinking that the scrawny, rough -looking boy meant to cut in front of them. Bill looked, but couldn't find Sherlock. He was lost in the crowd. Panicking, he turned around, heading to find the Irregulars and get their help in the hunt for Sherlock.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock shook Bill off of his tail, and headed towards the bathroom, where he'd agreed to meet Jim. But as he approached, he saw another obstacle. Moran and his gang idled around the bathroom, all of the five of the squeaky-clean squares turning to stare as Sherlock got close. One of the taller ones stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest. Moran spoke snidely.

"Hold on a minute, Holmes. Where are you headed in such a hurry? Off to find your pet, John Watson, I suppose. You gonna catch a quickie in the bathroom?" He smirked as his goons laughed, throwing out various comment like "fag" and "Pervert".

"Tell me..." He sidled forward, watching how Sherlock twitched at the mention of John. "Does he howl when you screw him? Does he wail like a little girl as well as fuck like one?" 

Sherlock tried at first to stay calm. He didn't want to cause a scene. Now... now Sherlock saw red. He didn't care what people said about him, but he wouldn't allow rumors to spread about John. His Johnny boy had been hurt enough. _Nobody talks about John like that. No one._ He lunged forward, fists flying. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John escaped, excusing himself to the restrooms. In all honesty, he just had to get away from Mary. The enormity of the lies he told overwhelmed him, until he could barely breathe. He needed to walk, to clear his head.

He descended the stairs and headed to the bathrooms, dreading having to fight the crowd at the concession stands. Suddenly he ran straight smack into Bill Wiggins. He had a look of panic on his face, but he looked slightly relieved to see John."John! Thank God. Can you help me?!"

"Of course," John rapped out "what can I do?"

Bill shifted, looking uncomfortable. "Look, John, I know you and Sherlock aren't on the best of terms right now, but please, let the gang know if you see him. OI've lost him in the crowd and I'm afraid he'll.... he'll get into trouble.

John snorted "He's been doing that a lot lately." He grinned, trying to cover his concern, and ignoring the slight bubble that rose in him - _Sherlock, here?_

"Alright. I'll look for him. I'll tell you if I see him." John kept headed towards the bathrooms. He shuffled down the dark hall behind the bleachers.As he approached, he heard the sickening smack of a fist against skin, followed by a loud roar and scuffling. He rushed to the source of the noise. A small crowd was forming around the door to the Men's' room, where Sherlock was getting the shit kicked out of him. Occasionally he'd get a swing in, but with five against one, he didn't stand much of a chance. 

John turned and sprinted back the way he'd come. Searching the crowd, he caught sight of Bill and shouted. Bill turned and John waved his arms and shouted "TROUBLE! BRING HELP!" Bill nodded and sprinted up into the stands, presumably to get the other Irregulars. A minute later the group ran back, and John waved them along. "This way! We've got to quick, it's five against one, he can't last much longer!" The Irregulars said nothing, merely followed. They burst through the ring that had formed around the fight, and all hell broke loose. Greg ripped the boy who'd been holding Sherlock's arms away, throwing him into the wall and punching him in the gut. Clara, Mike and Bill each took one of the others.Clara moved quickly and viciously, not giving her opponent time to think, she nailed him in the groin, punched him in the face. Bill's opponent didn’t even put up a fight - he caught one glance of the flick knife in his hand and ran for it.

John tackled Moran, who'd been happily waling on Sherlock while the others held him. In that moment all the training John had gotten on the streets of London came back to him, and the horrible tension and pain that had been building inside finally burst. The next moments flew by, and before he knew it he was straddling Moran's chest, punching his face over and over again. He felt some of his rage leave with every blow, never mind the damage he was doing to the other boy. Suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him away. John kicked, wanting to beat Moran to a bloody pulp, but froze when a cool voice spoke in his ear. 

"Enough now, Johnny Boy. You've Shown him.

And while I'd love to see Moran dead, I don't think you'd be too happy in the morning." John nodded, but jerked away from Sherlock's hold, brushing himself off absently. He watched as Moran's goons grabbed him and hobbled away, the crowd dispersing to go back to the game. The Irregulars exchanged awkward glances, then shuffled away, Greg and Sherlock exchanging a curt nod. The dark hall was silent for a moment, John and Sherlock the only ones remaining. Finally, John broke the silence. "Now what the hell was that about?"

Sherlock shrugged "They were assholes."

John laughed. "People usually are when you're involved. You alright? Moran was really laying into you..."

"I'm fine John. They didn't hurt me. I promise. Now, enough with the pleasantries, would you mind explaining why you're torturing yourself?"

John was caught off guard. "Wh- what do you mean?

" Well, you're little charade with Mary for example? Anyone with half a brain can see that you're miserable."

John sighed, rubbing his shoulder absently. "I'd tell you what I'd tell others, but you'd know I'm lying. You're a smart one, Sherlock, you must have figured out what's happening by now." He paused and sighed. He seemed to let out some of his tension. He let go of the charade long enough to choke on all his lies. "I don't know what to say, Sherlock..."

"I do," said Sherlock. "I love you."

John stared, his mouth hung open like a fish. "You... No you don't."

"Of course I do."

"NO, Sherlock you DON'T!!!" John almost screamed it. Sherlock stared, astonished by Johns reaction. "John, shook slightly, tears formed in his eyes. "You can't …. you can't... Don't you see? That just makes it more difficult, more _impossible_ to stay away from you... and I have to I _have_ to!" Sherlock stepped forward suddenly, clutching at John's shirt and kissing him. It was not a rough, fierce kiss. It was sweet, comforting, loving. John shuddered, sinking into Sherlock's embrace. He had to end this, it had to stop! But it felt so right, so true. He loved Sherlock, he knew that now, could feel it in the way they talked, ran, solved crimes, committed crimes, kissed. He felt it in the very depths of his soul, and he cried, knowing that this relationship could never be. Knowing it would be the end of them both. A strange clenching burn was in his chest, and he wondered if this is what a broken heart felt like, if this pain would be there as long as he was forced to live a lie.

He pulled back, as much as the limited space would allow. Sherlock’s lips followed his own, but he finally focused when John placed two gentle fingers against his lips. Sherlock looked into baby blue eyes and was shocked to find tears. “I… I-I can’t. Sherlock… I just… Can’t.” He stammered softly, his voice was choked and cracked, as though his heart was crumbling in his chest. He stumbled away from Sherlock, heading back to the light, wiping his tears away as the roaring of the crowd filled his ears. Sherlock stood in the dark, thinking. _No more. I can stand this no longer! John is mine. John is MINE. And I am done with this farce. I am finished. I have to save him from himself, but how...._ Finally, he came to a decision. He headed to the parking lot, totally forgetting his meeting with Jim. He smiled as the Hound roared to life. John loved him, he could feel it, he'd felt it in that kiss. And so he was going to take John back. _I won't let you hurt anymore._ He swore it to the night. _No more pain for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN-DU-DUN-DAAAA! Sherlock to the rescue!!!  
> SO yeah, angst angst angst. I kinda hate this chapter. idunno. Maybe I'll like it better in the morning. Let me know what you guys think, I;m happy to fix stuff if you think its weak or otherwise crappy :)  
> ummmm yeah, so drugs are bad, don't do them. Violence is bad don't do that. And being gay is bad don't do that either _ KIDDING !! TOTALLY KIDDING!! I'M BISEXUAL MYSELF I AM TOTALLY GAY RIGHTS I'M KIDDING KIDDING KIDDING!! I HEART THE GAY COMMUNITY THREE CHEERS FOR HOMOSEXUALS( and bi, and gender queers, and tranny's (YAY Tranny's!!) and pans - the whole stinkin LGBT community)!!! wow. I really am tired. Imma sleep now - Thanks for all your support loves! CIAO BAYBAY!


	14. Summons to Contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hands up." Hamish rapped out. With a creak of leather, Sherlock raised his arms above his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would not believe how fucking difficult it is to post a chapter from a phone. I mean... GAAAAAHHHH. I feel like death. I'm sitting at a football game, with my nose and fingers practically falling off from the cold, posting this chapter. Why? Because I love you. OBVIOUSLY!!!! Right, the games about to start so imma cut this short. This chapter is pretty short but VERY IMPORTANT. Heeeeee I hope you like it!  
> *Hey guys, adding this a bit later.   
> I went back and edited, because posting from a cellphone is not the easiest thing in the world. Of course I found a butt-ton of mistakes, and fixed them, but I'm sure I missed some. If you see any please let me know, I hate posting mistakes! Welp, anyways, I hope you like it - Comments, critiques, and suggestions are always welcome :)

John drove Mary home after the football game, then rocketed home, wanting to go to bed and forget the mess he was in. He went into the house, closing the front door gently. Treading softly he passed his father's unconscious form sprawled on the couch. Pausing, he glared down at the man who seemed determined to make Johns life a living hell. He'd never truly hated his father before. Somehow he'd always managed to forgive his misdeeds. Even after James had died, he had been so full of fear and grief, so shell-shocked he didn't really feel anything towards his father. Now he saw the utter ruin his life was - would always be under Hamish Watson's reign. He felt rage curling in his chest. The vicious streak he knew he'd inherited from his father - The one that had made itself known in the fight at the football game - reared it's ugly head, urging him to hurt the sleeping man. He wanted to hit him, wrap his hands around his fathers throat and squeeze and squeeze and _squeeze_.

He stood frozen, indulging in the waves of anger and grief that tore through him. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and strode quickly into his room, locking the door behind him. Gasping for air, he stormed to the window over his desk. He shoved it open, taking deep, calming breaths - sucking in the cool night air. He slumped over the desk, clenching his fists on the scratched wood surface. He would not be his father. He could be strong, he _would_ be strong. He didn't have any other choice.

Sitting at his desk, he buried his face in his hands. He felt like a fraying cord. With every new stress, every new pain, the cord pulled tighter and tighter. Unraveling bit by bit. Eventually it would break with an explosive _snap_. He hoped that day would never come. He had to hope things would get better before it came to that. Hope... a silly notion really. He sighed loudly, combing a hand through his hair.

"Why the long face, Johnny-boy?" John jerked up with a start, nearly tumbling backwards out of his chair when he saw Sherlock leaning in the open window. Sherlock grinned, puffing a soft ebony curl off of his forehead.

"Sherlock?!" John shouted, then remembered where he was. Casting a sharp glance over his shoulder he asked more quietly "What are you doing here?!" God, if his father caught him... 

Sherlock leaned casually on the window frame, not bothering to lower his voice. "Well obviously I'm here to rescue you." 

"Rescue- what are you talking about?"

"Well isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Rescue my damsel in distress from the ivory tower?" He gestured grandly, brandishing a smoking cigarette.

John crossed his arms. He was torn between happiness and anger. He was glad to see Sherlock, even more to hear him joking and see him smiling. But he had told Sherlock not to come here! _Wait a minute. "DAMSEL"?!_ " I am _not_ a damsel!" John splayed his hands on the desk, leaning forward to glare at Sherlock.

"Oh, definitely not," Sherlock chuckled then suddenly became more serious. "But you are in distress John. And I _am_ getting you out of here."

"What are you talking about - where are we going?"

" I'm talking about removing you from an environment that is dangerous to your health, both mental and physical." Sherlock was suddenly intense. He leant through the window so that he and John were almost nose to nose. "Pack a bag, Johnny boy, you're coming home with me."

"Pack - no! Sherlock, I can't! I can't leave mum and Harry here, not without me to protect them."

Sherlock huffed impatiently through his nose. " Of course I have plans for them as well, I discussed them with Mummy and she quite approves. We're going to get you all away from _him_. But those plans will take a little time, and I can't risk him hurting you any more in the meantime. So, we're leaving. Now."

"but-"

"But nothing, John. _Pack_." 

John felt overwhelmed. Sherlock had done a complete one-eighty. He was his clear, precise, bossy self. What had happened to the angry, dark Sherlock that had been storming around the past few weeks?! Not an hour ago Sherlock had said he loved John- clearly he wasn't feeling well, maybe he was having a nervous breakdown.

But that was beside the point. While running away with Sherlock sounded wonderful and exciting, John _could not_ leave his mother and sister. His father would go ballistic if John cut and ran, and they would be the ones to suffer for it. And there were the Holmes' to think about. His dad would do something terrible if John ran to Sherlock. Perhaps murder the entire Holmes family! He shuddered. _Here we go again. Time to chase him away._

"No, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced up at John's tone, keen ice eyes locking with stern blue. "No what, John?"

"No, I'm not coming with you. And my family doesn't need your help. It's very kind on you're part . You're really dashing, my knight in shining leather." John attempted a sneer. "But I don't need you. We don't need you, we are _fine_. "

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Bullocks."

John laughed, a shaky, high pitched laugh, but said nothing.

A thin, white hand shot out and grabbed John's collar, yanking him forward. He gasped, staring wide -eyed into electric eyes. There was a moment of silence as Sherlock watched him. He shifted uncomfortably, his body aching from the awkward way he was stretched over the desk. Finally, Sherlock spoke, his tone surprisingly soft and understanding. "I know you're scared, John. I know you're trying to protect me. But I promise you, he can't touch me. He _can_ touch you. If you let this go on... he'll be the death of you all." John flushed and looked down, trying to keep his expression stern, trying to hide the wetness in his eyes. Sherlock's voice was even lower as he begged: "Let me help you."

John convulsed, yanking himself out of Sherlock's grip. He turned his back on Sherlock, roughly wiping the tears away. "What can you possibly do?"

Sherlock was about to respond when he felt a ring of cold metal press against his temple. "Gotcha." The smug voice spoke right beside him. _Idiot! How could you not have noticed?! There was a reason John wanted you to keep your voice down..._

Hearing a dreaded, familiar chuckle, John whirled around. His eyes went wide and dark as he watched his father press a gun to Sherlock's head. "Hands up." Hamish rapped out. With a creak of leather, Sherlock raised his arms above his head. He backed away from the window, allowing Hamish to look fully into his sons room. He grinned drunkenly and spoke with slurred words. "Midnight tryst at the window, eh _Johnny-boy_?" Clearly Hamish must have overheard at least part of their conversation, from the sneering way he said John's name. Sherlock flinched, he hated hearing his endearment twisted into a mockery. He noticed how the nose of the gun wavered slightly. Hamish was clearly three sheets to the wind, but he didn't want to take any chances. He had no doubt the gun was loaded. 

John watched, his mind spinning with terror. His soul screamed as his stared at the gleaming gun. _NO! NOT SHERLOCK! Please God! NOT SHERLOCK!!!_

John trembled with hatred as his father continued speaking in an amiable tone. "I warned ya, John. I told ya! 'Keep away from Holmes' I said 'or I'll blow his feckin' head off'. 'Don't be such a bloody poofter' I said." He shifted, raising his other hand to grip the gun, the nose wobbling to and fro. Sherlock's eyes met John's, and he grinned. Huddy had been right, John was just protecting him. There was solid proof that John did love him. Sherlock nearly forgot the gun held to his head as a wave of relief and happiness swept over him.

John stared back at Sherlock, _why was the nutter smiling?!_ His gaze flicked back to his father as a sharp _click_ emanated from the gun. He'd cocked the hammer of the gun, a bullet was in the chamber. Cold despair swept through him, then something snapped. Hamish's finger twitched on the trigger and John leapt. He vaulted over his desk and through the window, hurling himself on his father. The gun was thrown clear as fists flew. John pinned his father and beat him, fists crunching sickeningly as they made contact again and again. He'd never have been able to gain the advantage if Hamish was sober, but luckily he wasn't. 

Eventually his father stopped fighting back, and then stopped moving altogether, but still John hit him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and pulled. "John. John! Enough, enough you'll kill him!"

"THAT'S- THE FUCKING - IDEA!" John roared, eyes wild, fists still flying. Finally Sherlock lifted John away bodily, forcing him back against a tree. He pinned him by the shoulders, towering over him and growling " _Enough._ " John froze and Sherlock stroked his cheek, watching him stare at the unconscious body of Hamish Watson. Johns eyes lost the wild light, and he stared dully. _My God, what have I done?_ He'd destroyed everything, given into his violent side and practically become his father. But he just couldn't hold it in, when that gun pressed against Sherlock's head. He just couldn't...

Sherlock looked down and was overwhelmed by the sheer agony in those beautiful blue eyes. " I just- I just c-can't be strong any more." John said tiredly, his voice cracking as he admitted the truth. Admitted that he was broken. Sherlock was horrified to see tears welling up and running down John's cheeks, see his body shaking with the force of silent sobs. 

" Oh. Oh John please- please don't. I- I don't know what to do- please,please, please don't!" Sherlock's voice was sweet and panicked. He spoke in a tone no one had ever heard except perhaps his mother. A tone full of fear and comfort, and maybe... Love? But _no,_ John thought. No. Sherlock couldn't love him. Not after seeing how weak he was. How broken.

His sobs became audible then. Gasping, cracking noises that scared Sherlock more than anything else had so far. His long thin hands flew about randomly, wanting to comfort but unsure, afraid to touch. Finally he threw caution to the winds and wrapped his arms around John, crushing him to his chest, with sweet murmurs of "Don't Johnny, oh Johnny, I'm so sorry, please baby please, please don't cry." Sherlock felt utterly lost, but to his relief, John buried his face in his chest, clutching at the lapels of his jacket.

John was so conflicted. He wanted Sherlock desperately. His flashing eyes, his wolfish grin, his danger, his desire. But the wants and urges Sherlock brought out in him, were the very things his father had beaten him for having. God only knows what he would do if he ever found out about Harry. Oh god, Harry! But no, she was at Clara's house, she was safe for tonight.

His sobs slowed and grew quieter until John was shaking silently, taking deep calming breaths and inhaling the scent of oil and leather and smoke and Sherlock. He felt long thin fingers petting through his hair, smoothing it and coaxing him to look up at Sherlock. He finally did, and stared up into those fascinating, colorless eyes. Eyes he felt certain must loathe him for his weakness, but showed only concern. " Please John," Sherlock whispered "Please, let me help, tell me what to do." John took a deep breath, he was already going to hell, what did it matter now? He slid his hands up and gripped the flipped up collar of Sherlocks jacket. "Kiss me." 

Sherlock looked surprised, then unsure, as he searched Johns face for some confirmation that this was what John really wanted. He must have found it, because he suddenly grabbed John roughly and pulled him into a wild and desperate kiss. There was no sweetness like the last kiss they had shared. No, this kiss was all lips and teeth, tongues and clutching hands. John hands were twisted so tightly into Sherlocks curls it had to hurt, but Sherlock didn't complain. He just moaned roughly and wrapped an arm around Johns waist, the other hand on the back of his neck as he cradled his head, plunging deeper and deeper into the beautiful, broken, blue eyed boy he could not live without. He pulled away gasping, only to nip at Johns jaw, breathing in the smell of him as he ran his nose along his neck. John shuddered and moaned such sweet and desperate moans.

A screen door slammed in the distance. They both froze, John with his back to the tree, fiercely clutching Sherlock's jacket, willing him not to run. Not to abandon him. Sherlock wrapped around John praying John wouldn't run away, willing him to stay in his arms. After a tense few minutes that felt like an eternity, Sherlock breathed out quietly and looked down at John, a his cocky wolfs smile back in place. "Come home with me." 

John shivered at the deep voice, a purr of pure seduction. He worried for a moment that this was a mistake, that Sherlock didn't know what he was getting into. But as he looked at Sherlock's face, tracing fingers softly over sharp cheekbones and cupids bow lips, he saw past the wolfish grin. Sherlocks eyes were full of something more than lust, something that looked like love. He knew it couldn't be, but he had already made his choice. He nodded, then placed a chaste kiss on those grinning lips. Sherlock growled in victory, kissing back roughly and nipping at Johns lips as he pulled away. John dashed back to the window and hauled himself through it into his room. He snatched up some random clothes and stuffed them in his school bag. He hoisted him back through, and landed lightly on the grass. He froze as he stumbled over his fathers bloody, motionless body. 

Sherlock came up behind him and kissed his neck lightly. "He's alive, Johnny-boy. But I think he'll be out of commission for quite some time. More than enough time to get Harry and your Mum out." John turned away from the damage he'd wrought, and kissed Sherlock desperately. Sherlock cradled Johns head, smiling as he pulled gently away. He grabbed John by the wrist and took off running, leading him to the spot where his bike was hidden in the undergrowth by the road.

John wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlocks middle as he revved the Hound up, pressing his cheek between sharp, leather clad shoulder blades. He didn't look back as they roared away, flying into the night like the very hounds of hell were chasing them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehehehehhehehehehhehehehehhrhehejehdhhehehshrhehe TISSEEEEEESSSS!!!!!! And my pervy siiide appears :)  
> Kisses and kisses and kisses to all my lovelies. Kudos to Stuckinabucketwithyou for "knight in shining leather", I totally stole that from a comment they left. Well time to get cracking on chapter 15. I love all you guys. I think that's it. Ciao babes.


	15. The Whole Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluff and plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :)  
> Remember me?  
> That chick who was like, "Oh yeah I'll totally update every week" and then fucked off to nowheresville without so much as a "ta-ta Motherfuckers"?  
> Yeah, that's me.  
> Well, all I can say is that it's been one of those times when I was anally raped by life, and I am truly, truly sorry.  
> I've been kinda stuck on plotlining this sucker, and I've ideas for two new fics bouncing around in my head and distracting me, so I'm sorry if this chapter sucks. As always I am open to critique and suggestions/ Ideas, so please don't burn me alive. I love all of you and I'm trying to get back on track. Hopefully I'll be having a Powwow with the Doc to plan things out soon. Well, it's good to be back, and I promise you'll see me again soon! Alsoooo HAPPY THANKSGIVING!! I don't care if you're not American everyone can celebrate turkey. That is what thanksgiving is about right? .... Right?

When they arrived at Sherlock's house, Sherlock was extremely cautious. Walking on tip toe, he led John by the arm to the side door. They snuck in through the kitchen, John's wrist clenched tightly in his long fingers. Together they raced up the main staircase (after removing their shoes) and practically flew to Sherlock's room at the end of the hall. Once he'd pushed John onto the bed, Sherlock stuck his head into the hall looking first towards his mother's room, then towards Mycroft's office. _All lights off, not a sound to be heard. They know we're here._ he sighed, at least his family could be tactful on occasion. And keep their nosy faces away from his John. 

Finally, he retreated inside, quietly shutting the door and locking it. 

He turned to where John sat, staring rather blank-faced out of his bedroom window. "Alright, John?" John turned his head to smile weakly. "Alright, Sherlock." His voice was tired, and he looked a hundred years old. Sherlock stripped off his jacket, throwing it aside carelessly, and went to crouch in front of John. Icy eyes met baby blue, and Sherlock was relieved there were no imminent tears. He reached up and gently took John's face in his hands. "It's going to be alright John, I promise." John nodded, but there was a twisted little grin on his face, as though he really wasn't buying it. Stroking a thumb across John's cheek, Sherlock tried to voice the sentiment that had been building inside him , amazed at the sincerity in his own voice. "Let me take care of you John. I can, you know I can. Do you... Trust me to?" Sherlock watched John warily. He knew he was a bit of a dark horse, and wouldn't be surprised if John didn't trust him at all, but he hoped he'd proven himself a least a bit. 

John huffed out a small laugh and rested a hand on Sherlock's thin shoulder. "Of course I trust you, you dolt." His eyes grew dark suddenly. "But... how can you possibly trust _me_?" Sherlock furrowed his brow, confused. Stroking the side of Johns face he shook his head slowly. "I don't understand." And weren't those words a bloody miracle coming out of his mouth? He wrinkled his nose in disgust, and John huffed another tired laugh. "How'd those words taste coming out of your mouth?" 

"Like vinegar, of course." 

John smiled slightly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "After everything I've done... After everything I've put you through...." Hesitantly, he ran a contemplative hand through Sherlock's dark curls; staring down at him hopelessly. "How can you possibly trust me?" 

Sherlock smiled in understanding. "Well I won't deny you threw me for a loop, Johnny boy." His thumb traced the shell of Johns ear thoughtfully. "Rather terrifying, the hold you have on me..." John blushed, and tried to pull away from Sherlock's gentle fingers. He was stopped by the hand on the other side of his face, which then curled round to firmly grip the back of his neck. Sherlock's ice eyes were deadly serious as he said "But I understand now, John. I know why you did it. You were just trying to keep me alive, weren't you?" Johns eyes met his, and now a thin line of tears was present. Sherlock hastily wiped them away, he _really_ could not stand seeing John cry. "I don't blame you, John." He spoke earnestly. " I don't blame you in the slightest. You've been a damn fool, trying to shoulder all of this yourself, but it was all for me, for your family. How could I possibly blame you for that?" Some of the tension left Johns shoulders, only to return when Sherlock said "Besides, this has all happened before, hasn't it? You couldn't bear to see it happen again." 

John looked horrified. "How...?" 

"Mycroft." 

John nodded, his brow furrowed. "I wondered when he'd tell you about James. He threatened me with it you know." Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded. Of course Mycroft would threaten John, he always was a controlling prig. John continued. "He implied he'd tell you the whole story, and I knew - he knew I couldn't bear it if you knew the truth. He told me on no uncertain terms he would not allow a repetition of the past." His voice grew suddenly shaky. "Funny," his voice cracked "How close to being wrong he was." Sherlock made vague comforting noises as he shifted, sitting besides john on the bed, still keeping a hand on the back of his neck. He couldn't let go, he was terrified John would bolt. But John just sagged against him, leaning his head on a thin, strong shoulder. He asked in a dead voice "How much did he tell you?" Gently, Sherlock raised the hand on John's neck to his hair, and started to comb through it. 

"He didn't tell me anything actually." John shifted his head to look up at Sherlock, confused. Sherlock grinned and pushed some errant strands of hair out of John's eyes. "Mrs. Hudson was snooping in his office and found a file he had about you." John tensed, but didn't bolt. "He has a _File_ on me?!" Sherlock snorted. "Don't be too flattered, he has files on everybody. The one about Huddy is a couple inches thick." 

John grunted, refusing to be distracted. "Well how much did the _file_ tell you about... everything?" 

Sherlock shrugged, trying not to give too much away. He didn't know much, but wasn't sure how much John wanted him to know. "Just that there was a boy named James you were, mm, involved with. That his father owned a garage, and both were found dead in the garage. And...." 

"And my father was suspected of killing them both." John spoke into Sherlock's shirt, not daring to make eye contact. 

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. It did say something about that. Said it was never proved but-" 

John chuckled darkly. "Oh he did it, Sherlock. He did it, no doubt about that. Showed me the gun and everything." 

"May I ask -"Sherlock hesitated, "May I ask what happened?" 

John was quiet for a long moment. "I'll tell you, but don't- don't say anything until I'm finished. It's just hard to get out..." Sherlock nodded. "Of course. But perhaps we should change first, you've got..." He plucked at the blood stains on the front of johns shirt. John paled and nodded jerkily. They both scrambled off the bed, Sherlock opening a dresser, John pulling the wad of clothing out of his bag. Sorting through the bundle, John began to speak. "Terry Malcolm - James' Dad- was in the same gang as my father. They were relatively low in the London crime world, but they'd begun to make a name for themselves by the time I was thirteen." He refused to look at Sherlock as he spoke, keeping his back to the silent boy. Instead he focused on sorting out the random clothing he'd snatched from his room and folding it neatly. He cleared his throat, then resumed. "They called themselves the Ticklers. Sounds stupid as anything, but it was after their leader, John Tick. He... He was a nasty customer - still is, I suppose. My da' worked for him as an enforcer, bullying and torturing anyone who crossed them - or even had the potential to. Dad loved the gang, called it his family, and when I turned thirteen - " John paused. He had found a pair of pajama pants and an old wife-beater that would serve as a nightshirt, and he twisted them together tightly. 

Here it was, the real moment of truth. Once Sherlock new everything, he might very well turn on John, but John had made his choice. He was going to trust Sherlock. He turned to face the pale boy, who had changed into a set of simple black pajamas, and was now staring at him, wary but fascinated. John blew out a gust of air and spat the words out quickly. "When I was thirteen, he had me inducted into the gang." There was no change in Sherlock's expression, so he he plowed on. " It was a big deal, every member had to swear an oath, and be marked." 

"Marked?" Sherlock asked, then blushed, remembering he wasn't supposed to say anything. John just smiled and unbuttoned his shirt. He ignored Sherlock's gasp as the map of scars and fading bruises was revealed, that wasn't what he wanted to show him. He turned slightly and raised his left arm, exposing the "T" that lay on the skin, directly beside his heart. Sherlock suddenly darted forward, and John flinched slightly as cold fingers traced the mark. "Branded?" Sherlock inquired clinically. "Yeah. Bits of metal fused into a "T" shape, then heated with a blow torch..." John watched as Sherlock's lip curled in disgust. "Archaic. Barbaric." 

John cringed away at the cold tone, and quickly yanked the wife-beater on. "Yeah, well, that describes the Ticklers right enough. Vicious lot, using violence whenever possible. They had the usual rackets - extortion, making businesses pay for protection, smuggling, bootlegging, gambling rings, fixing fights, you name it - every dirty trick in the book." John grabbed the pajama bottoms and shot Sherlock a meaningful look. Sherlock sighed exasperatedly and turned, flopping face first onto the bed. John changed quickly, grimacing as his bruises - new and old- twinged. He sat at the head of the huge bed, his back to the headboard, knees pulled close to his chest as he continued his story. 

"I was a runner for them, transporting money, guns, booze, sometimes even drugs. Y'know, like that cocaine that's been so popular?" 

Sherlock tensed on the bed, face still planted in the comforter, but John didn’t notice, too lost in his own remembrances. "I carried their valuables all over London, got jumped plenty of times. Always did the job though, " His voice held a note of pride "I always delivered. No one ever beat me in a fight, and I always delivered my goods." his brow furrowed again. "Da' was proud of me then, really proud. The gang loved me, called me their little street soldier. I loved it too, to be honest. I didn't see the really violent side of things, the Ticklers never let me see the murder and torture that went on. They were family, in an odd way, looked after me and Mum and Harry." John rubbed his shoulder absently, bracing himself to tell the next piece of the story. 

"Of course, I grew up, and I realized what was happening. They started to let me in on the darker stuff, Da' even tried to "teach me his trade". But I couldn't, couldn't follow in his footsteps. I told him I was more interested in the smuggling racket, so he got me a job at Malcolm's garage. It _was_ a legitimate garage, but it doubled as a chop-shop, as well as a depot for the gang to stash stolen goods. And that's.... where I met James." Sherlock finally turned his head, a flare of jealously spiking as he heard the tenderness in John's voice. John saw the look on Sherlock's face and grinned. "He hasn't got anything on you Love, not now." Sherlock's insides warmed at the endearment, but he didn't point it out, not wanting John to take it back. 

John tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "You remind me of him a bit, in some ways. He had your confidence, though he wasn't such an arrogant git." Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. " James was his father's apprentice, fellow member of the gang, and he didn't have the same qualms I did, about the violence. He knew it was wrong, but he just shrugged it off - I don't think he ever realized what his father and mine actually did. Never had the chance." The sad tone was back , and Sherlock slid a hand forward to hold John's. John smiled gratefully. "I worked there for a year, and James and I got closer and closer. I'd fancied boys before, but this was different. I cared about him, deeply, and in an odd way... I needed him." _The way I need you._ Sherlock thought, squeezing John's hand. 

"But nothing happened for the longest time. We exchanged looks, brushed shoulders, hinted at things, but didn't actually do anything about it. Then one night, we were there late fixing up a car. I went to the back room to get a tool box, and James followed me. He told me he'd seen the way I watched him." a slight pink rose in in John's cheeks. "Of course I was terrified, James was a big lad and while I was sure I could handle him I, well, I didn't want to hurt him. But he didn’t want a fight. Quite the uh, opposite in fact. He told me... he loved me. Then he, we, well...kissed." John's face was bright red, and Sherlock smirked. How innocent his Johnny boy was, in spite of all he'd been through. 

Sherlock skimmed his thumb back and forth across John's hand, not making eye contact. He hadn't anticipated how difficult it would be to hear John talk about someone else. He believed John when he said he cared only for Sherlock but still, it made his blood simmer in his veins to think of someone else touching John. He hated Mary with a burning passion, but somehow, it was even worse to think of another boy touching his John. If Sherlock had his way, he would have been the only boy ever to kiss John. He comforted himself with the fact that even if he wasn't the first, he could make damn sure he was the last. 

John cleared his throat, and Sherlock eyes flicked up to meet the glorious blue ones. John spoke slowly, never breaking eye contact, his grip on Sherlock's hand grew tighter, almost painful, but Sherlock was too absorbed to notice. "That's where he found us. His dad. Snogging in his back room. I don't remember a lot of what happened next, I know he beat me, and James tried to stop him, but it was no use." His words started to run together and his breathing sped up. "He beat me, beat James, threw me into a wall. I- I hit my head pretty hard, the doctors told me I probably blacked out... When I woke up, the barrel of a shot gun was in my face-" John broke off suddenly, shaking and gasping for air. He felt so ridiculous, getting worked up over a memory, over something that had happened over two years ago. but here he was, almost hyperventilating. _Weak, weak, weak_ his father's voice snickered in his head. 

Sherlock crawled up next to John, pulling him into his arms so Johns back was to his chest. He held him tightly, his head bent so his chin rested on Johns good shoulder. "You can stop John," He rumbled., "I think I can guess the rest." John shook his head and hiccupped, trying to get his breath under control. "Nearly done now. Want you to know everything." He mumbled indistinctly, then plowed on. "He didn't kill me, obviously. James yanked his arm and he shot me in the shoulder. I don't remember anything after that. I woke up in the hospital days later, with my father sitting beside me, cleaning his gun. He'd shot them both. Mr. Malcolm for almost killing me, James for almost getting me killed." He was shaking now, and Sherlock tightened his arms around him, murmuring comforts in his ear. " He described it to me. How he shot James first, made his father watch. He said James called out for me, but I wasn't there - I wasn't -" 

"Enough." Sherlock interrupted sternly. John was a shaking mess, and it would do him no good to keep talking about that horror. Sherlock crossed his arms over John's chest and hummed lowly in John's ear, the way his own mother had done when he'd been little, and getting hysterical over some kid's teasing or a fight with Mycroft. John took deep breaths and leant back into Sherlock's warmth. The low humming in his ear vibrated in Sherlock's chest, comforting, grounding. Finally Sherlock spoke, trying to redirect John's thoughts to less dark ideas. "The Street Soldier, eh? It's fitting. No wonder you could knock me flat on my ass." John chuckled weakly. "I learned from the best in the gang. 'Course it was never the same after Da' shot Malcolm. No one trusted him, and everyone gave him hell over his son being a poof.Da' took it out on me, punished me for not being able to control my urges." Sherlock growled low in his throat, but John just shrugged. "It was bound to happen, I'm just a weak-natured person. I always give in to my needs." The nonchalant tone of Johns voice stung Sherlock. 

He disentangled himself and scrambled to face John, a stern expression on his face. "You aren't weak." John smiled sarcastically and nodded. "Sure, sure I'm not. I just can't control myself enough to keep you alive and my father beating the daylights out of me." 

"John, those things were out of your control. You never had a chance in hell of controlling them." 

A shocked, hurt look appeared on John's face, and Sherlock knew he'd put his foot in his mouth. Why did he have to be so bad with words?! He took John's face in his hands, forcing him to look him in the eye. "You _are_ strong John. Perhaps the strongest person I've ever met. But you tried to take the weight of the world on your shoulders, and that is too much weight for anyone to bear." Johns eyelids flickered, and he looked uncertain. Sherlock plowed on, not giving him a chance too protest. "You said you can't be strong anymore. You can, I know you still are, but you don't have to go it alone. You have me. And I have a plan, and we'll work this out I swear we will, I promise you there will be a better morning." He realized he was babbling and stopped, biting his lip, praying John would believe him. 

John stared amazed, then a small, achingly sweet smile spread across his face. He lurched forward and kissed Sherlock soundly, once, twice, three times. He finally pulled away a few inches, and their panting breaths mingled as John said "What would I do without you Sherlock Holmes?" Sherlock shrugged, and kissed John in answer, wanting to push farther, wanting to wrap John in his arms and never let go. But they were both tired, and John was in no state for anything more intense than kissing. Finally he pulled away, standing to turn off the light. He came back to the bed, and John folded back the covers for them both. Sherlock endeavored to wrap himself around John as tightly as possible, but John made no complaint; he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Sherlock lay for a long time, tracing a finger across John's cheek, repeating his promise over and over in his head. _There_ will _be a better tomorrow._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Rage burned in Jim Moriarty's heart. Sherlock had stood him up. He had _stood him up_ , and had gone back to that _Stupid, pathetic_ John Watson. _Well,_ He grinned madly to himself as he raised the gun and fired three shots, _there will be hell to pay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jimmy, jimmy, jimmy. Let the Games begin!  
> This was a lot of plottiness, and a whole lot of fluff because I'm feeling like a horrible person.  
> In case anyone's interested (which I doubt) The song "Johnny Boy" By Twenty-One Pilots has been a huuuuuge inspiration to me while writing this. GO LOOK IT UP THIS MINUTE OR I'LL POP A CAP IN YOUR SWEET PATOOTIE!! JK I don't even own a gun. I have a cap gun, so I suppose I could insert on of the caps into your derriere... eewwie. >8/  
> Mooooooving on!  
> I appreciate every comment kudos and half-assed glance at my work, and thank you all for sticking with me while I got life-raped!  
> I think that's all - Ciao Babes ;)


	16. Homicide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snuggles and plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there. So.... I've been gone forever, but I have legit excuses - none of which am I going to bore you with. suffice it to say, I'm back! The next two chapters were supposed to be one, but it was just taking to durned long, so I split them - cause I wanted to post ASAP. GAAAAH I AM SOO SORRY I'VE FELT SO FREAKING GUILTY!!
> 
> But You can give some of the kudos for getting my butt in gear to Stuckinabucketwithyou, who is writing a stinkin porno for me. Okay, there's some plot, but also porn. :D :D :D :D :D She said she won't update until I do, soooo here I am . Go check her fic out - it's called [ You Are My Salvation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3110375/chapters/6738686) AND IT'S AWESOME - her plot is somewhat inspired by mine, but she's gone in a totally different direction - it makes up for all the UST in this fic!
> 
> This is also for my pal Marketsalami, whose been going through some rough stuff. It's okay for now, but I just wanna make her smile :)  
> So once again, I'm back, I'm sorry, please comment, and let me know if there are any screw ups, I hate looking like a doofus. (oh wait, too late :P )

John slept better than he had in months. No dreams, no waking up in the middle of the night, just deep, silent sleep. He woke slowly in the morning. Instead of jerking awake to the sound of an alarm, he seemed to rise slowly through layers of warmth. Keeping his eyes closed he turned slightly, snuggling deeper into the warm solid thing that was wrapped around him. He felt a puff of warm air on his face, and slowly cracked one eye open. Sherlock was nose to nose with him, dark tousled curls spread across his forehead, a small smile curling the edges of his open mouth. John wrinkled his nose. Sherlock was drooling.

He tried to pull away, only to find the thing wrapped around him was Sherlock, who had twisted his limbs around John like some kind of creeping vine. John struggled weakly for a minute, then gave up, settling back into Sherlock's warmth. He had been sleeping with his forehead pressed to Sherlock's collar bone, not the most comfortable pillow. But as he stretched (as much as Sherlock's death grip would allow him) he realized he felt better than he had in ages. Despite the many aches and bruises across his body, he felt healthy, and what was more he felt happy, and safe. 

He thought about the previous evening, and was surprised to find he was actually relieved to have told Sherlock everything. It was as if an enormous weight had been constricting his heart and his lungs, and was suddenly gone. He felt hopeful. Yes, he'd gone a bit wild and beaten the tar out of his old man, but really, the bastard deserved it after the months - the _years_ \- of hell he had put his family through. John tensed at the thought of his family, but forced himself to take a deep breath a relax again. Sherlock said he had a plan, John could let go and hand the reins over to someone else for a while. And oh, what a relief that was. He thought back to what Sherlock had said the night before. He _had_ been trying to carry the world on his shoulders, and it had nearly killed him. But now, things would be different, now he had a chance to make everything right. And someone who - he blushed - _loved him_ to help him through it. He remembered Sherlock saying that too. He hoped, he prayed Sherlock had meant that, but he was no fool. They were teenagers, and John was broken. It would take an extraordinary person to love him. _But,_ he thought, _Sherlock **is** extraordinary..._

He looked lovingly into the slack face, carefully peeling one arm from Sherlock's grasp so that he could trace the strong jaw, the sharp cheekbones. He froze as icy eyes suddenly snapped open, pinning him with a stare. "G-good morning..." John stuttered, hastily pulling his hand away. Sherlock own thin hand caught it, pressing it back to his cheek and holding it there. His eyes slid shut as he relished the warmth from John's hand, and he took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the scent at John's wrist. When he spoke, his voice was low, slurred and gravelly from sleep. "Morning. You sleep well?"

"Yeah, thanks. I haven't slept that well in, well, ever actually." 

Sherlock grinned, tightening the arm he had around John's waist and nuzzling into the line of John's jaw, just below his ear. "Same. I don't sleep very much at all, never have seen much use in it. But this" - he took another deep breath and pressed a kiss to John's jaw - "I could get used to this." 

John blushed furiously as he was kissed, but he didn't pull away. He was conscious of how close things had been last night, and considering Sherlock had recently had a gun in his face, John was willing to give him all the kisses he wanted. Sherlock seemed pleased at John's reaction, and pressed another kiss to John's neck, following the pink heat that was spreading down John's throat. John pulled back from the overwhelming touches and snuggled down, resting his face in the hollow of Sherlock's throat, and placing his own timid kiss to the soft white flesh there. 

Sherlock suddenly went stiff, and John worried he'd done something wrong. He tried to pull back to look at him, but Sherlock tightened his grip on John, keeping him where he was. He spoke suddenly, voice hard and angry. "Ever heard of knocking, Mycroft? It's usually safe to assume people with locked doors require privacy."

It was John's turn to go stiff then as he heard a cold, snobbish voice reply "Usually brother dear that is the case. But I felt I must intrude in the interest of propriety. He is, after all, in your bed." John jerked back, only to find himself engulfed in Sherlock once more. He felt absolutely mortified, struggling as the brother's conversation went on, to free himself from Sherlock's grip. 

"Why yes, John _is_ in my bed, " Sherlock retorted angrily. "And I happen to quite like him there. And I'd be much obliged if you'd piss off, so he would stop trying to leave it." 

John stop struggling and slumped in on himself, feeling as though he were going to melt with embarrassment. And fear. Mycroft had made it quite clear he didn't want John anywhere near his brother. John couldn't imagine what swift punishment Mycroft might have in store for John's - very blatant - disobedience.

But Mycroft only sighed. "As much as I hate to disturb this 'forbidden - love' fest, I'm afraid the police, specifically Detective Lestrade, would like a rather urgent word with you." 

Sherlock sat up, finally loosening his grip on John enough to allow him to scramble to the opposite side of the bed. Sherlock shot him a pouting look but focused on Mycroft. "Lestrade? Where is he?"

"Downstairs. In the family room as it happens. I told him you were indisposed, but he... Insisted." Mycroft flicked an imaginary speck of dust off of his shoulder. "I would be brisk about it, Sherlock, he seems to be in a hurry." Sherlock threw back the covers and swung his long legs out of bed. Mycroft nodded approvingly and turned to go. "Oh, and John?" He stopped in the doorway and looked back at John, who sat frozen like a deer in the headlights. "You might be interested to know that your father was found unconscious outside of your house earlier this morning. He'd been badly beaten, as well as intoxicated, it seems. He's been removed to hospital, and I'm afraid he's going to be there for... quite some time." He gave John a knowing look, then strode out of the room. 

Sherlock and John exchanged a look. "He knows." John was wary.

"Obviously." Sherlock yanked off his shirt and started rooting through his chest of drawers. John found himself staring and the pale, lean muscled back and blushed to a deep purple. He turned and got off the bed, going to his bag and pulling out fresh- if slightly wrinkled- clothes. He spoke as he sorted through a bundle of socks. "So what do you think Lestrade wants?"

"Obviously he's here to ask us about a murder."

John turned to stare at Sherlock, who was now dragging a comb through his wild hair. "What murder?!"

Sherlock grinned. "No idea. But it must be important business for him to barge in on a Saturday morning. And to 'Insist' to my brother, it must be nothing less than murder. Lestrade's terrified of Mycroft." Sherlock gave up on his hair and watched John change shirts, unashamedly appreciative of the muscle that was exposed. John's blush refused to fade, so he tried to distract Sherlock. "Who do you think it was?" 

"Who was killed or did the killing?"

John shrugged. "Either."

Sherlock sat on the bed, pulling on his Converse slowly. "I have an idea of who might've died. As for who did it..." He stared out the window, thinking hard, then shook his head. He glanced at John, who was fastening his slacks, looking sadly at the crinkled fabric. He grinned, and pulled John's hands away from their fussing. "Come on John, let's go see what the good inspector has for us." He pecked John on the lips, eliciting yet another one of his precious blushes, and lead the way down the stairs. Mycroft really was lucky he had something interesting for Sherlock, as he was still sporting some vicious morning wood, and he had been very loathed to let john out of his bed without taking care of it. But the game was on, and getting handsy with Johnny boy would just have to wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Watson sat at her kitchen table, clutching a telegram she'd just received. It read:

>  
> 
> HAVE RECEIVED MESSAGE {STOP} 
> 
>  
> 
> AGREE TO TERMS {STOP} 
> 
>  
> 
> H WILL ARRIVE WITHIN TWO WEEKS {STOP} 
> 
>  
> 
> HAVE MISSED OUR DEAR WATSON FAMILY - T {FULL STOP} 
> 
>  

She sighed, trembling a bit as let the telegram drop to the table. So, it was done. There was no turning back now, once things were set in motion, they could not be stopped. But she had _no other choice_ She had woken this morning to find her son vanished from his bed, and her husband bleeding in the yard. She knew John had done it, she knew he had finally snapped - she only hoped he was safe. She had thought she'd heard a motorcycle last night, hopefully that Holmes boy had gotten John out of harms way. Now her husband was in the hospital, racking up bills they could not afford to pay. Well, Hamish could, what with the money he'd stolen from his old gang... _Oh Lord, what a mess we're in!_ She felt hot tears drip down her nose, and drip onto the telegram.

She picked up the paper and wiped the drops away. _Well, it will soon be over now. John downed him for a while but Hamish'll be at it again soon enough. But then **He'll** be arriving. And then we'll be free._ She smiled, getting up to make some tea. _We will finally be free._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil Lestrade looked like he was drowning in the huge squishy arm chair Mrs. Hudson had forced him into, and was extremely happy to see Sherlock and John entering the room. "Ah, boys. Sit down, we need to talk."

Sherlock ignored him and strode over to the fire place, leaning casually against the mantle. John smiled and sat in the worn leather arm chair across from the detective. "So?" Sherlock drawled "Who's kicked it?" 

John shot him a look, but Sherlock just smirked. Lestrade looked grave. "How do you know someone's dead, Sherlock?" 

"Obviously you wouldn't "insist" if it wasn't something drastic. You have just recently kicked us off of a murder investigation, and here you come a-knocking. It's only logical to assume someone else is dead."

Lestrade nodded warily, seeming unwilling to buy Sherlock's insight. "You sure you haven't heard anything... talked to anyone?" 

"He's not in cahoots with the murderer, if that's what your implying." John growled, looking offended.

"No! No, it's just.... I'd better tell you the whole story."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do."

Neil shot him a look, then took a deep breath. "Henry Basker is dead." John swore, looking horrified and shocked, but Sherlock just nodded, a knowing gleam in his eye. "When?" He asked. "How?"

"Last night. He was finally released from the hospital. He's been under police protection since his uncle was shot, but he was being moved to a safe-haven youth hostile - under a pseudonym and everything. We thought he'd be safe." Sherlock snorted, and John longed to kick him, but Neil seemed to agree with Sherlock. "Yeah, it was stupid. Whoever is behind this, they're serious. Taking Stapleton was just the tip of the iceberg." He pulled out his notebook and flipped through the pages, summarizing as he went. "At approximately 11:30 pm last night, Henry's roommate was down the hall brushing his teeth in the shared bathroom. He heard three gunshots and ran into the hall to see a boy going out of the window at the opposite end of the corridor. The boy was dark, and wearing a leather jacket." Here, Neil's eyes flicked up, looking intently at Sherlock, who did nothing but raise an eyebrow. John looked between them nervously, clearing his throat. Neil grunted and went back to his notes. "The roommate ran to the open door of his room, and found Henry on the floor, bleeding out. He apparently started screaming like a banshee and the police were called momentarily." 

"Where was he shot?" Sherlock asked in his most matter-of-fact tone. 

Neil checked his notes again. "Once in the stomach, twice in the head. It looks like he was shot in the stomach first, and then shot in the head while he was lying on the floor." 

John shuddered, his face paling. Sherlock was by him in an instant, a hand resting on his shoulder. John raised his hand to rest on Sherlock's, before seeing Lestrade's raised eyebrow and smacking Sherlock's hand away. " 'M fine, Sherlock." he muttered, not meeting Neil's gaze. 

Neil just snorted and asked "So, Sherlock, can you tell me where you were last night?" At this moment Mrs. Hudson burst out from behind the door where she'd apparently been listening in. She stomped over to Neil, brandishing a rolling pin as she went. "Now then none of that! I will not have you accusing this lad of murder! It will not do! After all he's done, after all the times he's helped you on cases, shown his mettle, I would think you'd have the decency not to suspect him every time there's a crime in town!" Lestrade raised his hands in defense, crushing himself back into the chair to avoid getting clocked with the rolling pin. "I don't! I don't! I swear Mrs. Hudson! It's routine, _routine_!!!" 

But Hudson went on ranting and waving the rolling pin, squawking about ungrateful fools and suspicious Americans. "Just because we have an accent does _Not_ mean we're born crim - " 

"MRS. HUDSON!!!" Sherlock roared. 

"Yes, dear?" 

Sherlock stared at her for a minute, amazed at how she went from screeching harpy to sweet gentile housekeeper in a single breath. "He's not accusing me, he just needs the facts. Also, tea?" She gave him a look. " _If_ you would be so kind." He ground out, looking put upon.

"Coming right up deary!" She waddled away, tutting and muttering to herself about her hip.

Sherlock looked after her. "Crazy old bat."

"I like her." John hummed. 

Sherlock shook his head and looked back at Lestrade, who was wearily straightening his tie. "You were saying?"

Lestrade sighed. "Look, Sherlock, I know it wasn't you, I won't insult you by asking you questions. but I think it may have been your pal Jim. He's known to have some pretty shady connections in town."

Sherlock shook his head and said "It couldn't have been. I saw him only a few minutes before 11:30. He couldn't possibly have had time."

Both Lestrade and John stared up at Sherlock. "You... saw him?" Neil asked suspiciously.

"Yes" Sherlock nodded sharply, ignoring the look John was giving him. "He was here, delivering some homework papers I'd missed. John was here too, he can confirm." Here Sherlock shot John a hard look, eyebrows crunched into a 'do-it-now-I'll-explain-later' kind of look. John shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to lie to the police. He knew full well that both he and Sherlock had been sound asleep in bed at least an hour before they supposedly saw Jim, but for some reason, Sherlock was lying. _Well,_ he thought, _if Sherlock's lying he usually has a good reason. It had better be a **damn** good one._ He huffed out through his nose and crossed his arms "Yes. he was here. As for Sherlock's alibi - I don't care what you say he _does_ need one He was with me all evening."

"All evening?" Neil looked up sharply. "Into the night?" John grimaced at Neil's tone, he was definitely implying something. John knew Neil knew the boys were more than casual friends, but he was not sure how Neil felt about it. He certainly didn’t look approving as his eyes flicked between them. Sherlock tensed and snapped. "John has a very difficult home life. letting him stay here sometimes is the least I could do - as a _friend_." Neil nodded and rose to his feet, still eyeing them carefully. "Very kind I'm sure. By the way, I heard about your father, John. We'll try to catch whoever did it, but I hope your not offended when I say it isn't our top priority at the moment." 

John nodded quickly. "N-no of course I understand. This Baker case is much more important. I-It's not like my dad's dead or anything." He smiled weakly. 

"Mm-hm, more's the pity from what I hear." Neil muttered, eyeing the bruise on John's face. John winced slightly, but didn't comment. "Well, I'll be off boys. Sherlock, I expect you to nose around your little gang, see if anyones involved." Sherlock nodded "Of course, Detective. I'll do all that I can. Shall I see you out?" He walked Lestrade out of the room, and John heard the front door opening and shutting. He remained in his chair, arms crossed, glaring as Sherlock came back into the room. 

"Now," He asked, using a hard voice that made usually made Sherlock shiver in anticipation, but now made him tense up in defense. "You want to tell me why I just lied to an officer of the law?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, I doubt it was worth the friggin MONTHS of waiting, but It's gonna be good I promise. It took forever to write this cause I'm so stinkin rusty, and the muse was fighting me the whole time. Jerk. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, there is more on the way!  
> Love and kisses and soul cookies to you all!  
> Ciao babes


	17. Another Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly it's Sherlock's turn to tell the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know I'm horrible I haven't updated in an eternity and I'm truly sorry. there have been various family issues which are ongoing, but I'm hoping they will no longer be a hindrance. Because as of this chap I am establishing a new modus operandi . I'm going to be posting much shorter chapters - which totally sucks and I HATE it - buuuuut doing that means I will be able to update much more frequently. So, lets get my rear in gear and get this show on the road! I would appreciate feedback, because the characters are starting to feel a little OOC to me, but I'm okay with that if it fits the plot - but what do you guys think???
> 
> if everyone totally ignores this that's cool, I know I need some time to get back in everyone's good graces ;) I hope you guys like this chap, and I cant wait to write more!!

Sherlock was stuttering, blushing, and generally looking like an idiot while his mind ran at top speed trying to find a way to placate a very angry looking John. "I- w-well, you see John - it was necessary - had to... to um, well yes and to keep Lestrade, y'know - can't lay all our cards on the um, the table - s-so to speak- " John's eyebrows rose higher and higher as Sherlock babbled on, and he was seriously considering slugging the idiot when Mycroft walked in. 

"Well, Brother dear, it's seems life with you is never without it's excitements. I too would quite like to know why you lied about Mr. Moriarty being here last night. Truly preposterous, as you know I will not have him within three thousand feet of the house."

John gaped. "How'd you know he lied-"

"Obviously the room's wired John, don't be dense." Sherlock snapped at him, never taking his eyes off of Mycroft. They seemed to be having an argument consisting entirely of eyebrow twitches and nostril flares. It was Mycroft who broke away first, rolling his eyes to heaven and sighing in a put-upon fashion. "Carry on however you like brother, it's really no concern of mine." He strolled towards the stairway, tossing a parting shot over his shoulder in a casual way - "But I do hope your not protecting him simply because he enables your little hobby. I would think upright citizens like John and yourself would be glad to see another supplier off the streets." He started up the stairs, a satisfied smirk on his lips. 

John rose to stand next to Sherlock, eyes following Mycroft as he strutted towards his office. He turned his head to give Sherlock a look. "What's he talking about Sherlock?"

"Oh um, nothing John. Just being a prat." Sherlock glared up at his brother. Mycroft ignored him, instead pausing to look down, sending John a meaningful look. Johns mouth thinned to a grim line and he turned to glare at Sherlock. "Bullshit." 

Mycroft chuckled, the smirk spreading even wider. "I take back what I've said, Sherlock. Having Mr. Watson living here may not be a total calamity." He clicked his tongue and strutted into his office. John stared after him. "What? _Living_ here?"

Sherlock leapt at the change in subject. "Of course John. You're staying here, there's no way in hell I'm letting you go back there - to him! It's all part of the plan. You see- " 

John held up a hand. "I don't want to hear about it." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Okay I do. But not until you tell me _why I lied_."

Sherlock huffed, and broke eye contact, instead wandering back to the couch and flopping down. He supposed the truth was bound to come out eventually. _It's only fair I share with John, after all that he's trusted me with... But I just won't be able to bear the disappointment! He trusts me. No one trusts me. And he won't if he knows. But he won't if I lie!_ He huffed out a percussive sigh, yanking a hand through his curls. That was it then. He could lie and disappoint John, or he could tell the truth and disappoint John. His searching eyes flicked up to where John stood before him, arms crossed - he looked stern, but also concerned. His brows were creased with worry as he watched Sherlock think. Well, Maybe John would be sympathetic - he was a kind idiot after all. Sherlock would just have to risk it - there could be no lies between them, not if he wanted this relationship to last. And he so desperately did. "I needed to protect Jim. I need him on the streets, where he can operate freely. Because.... because he's my supplier." John stood staring. "Of drugs." John stood staring. "Cocaine to be specific, and I suppose one ought to be specific about this kind of thing." John stood staring. He shut his eyes, squeezing them, and his fists clenched at his side. He looked like he might be sick. Sherlock stood and approach him slowly, becoming worried when John didn't acknowledge him. Something in him shriveled. He could bear anger, but if John simply ignored him... He felt pathetic. Finally he blurted 

"John I-" he was interrupted by a swift slap to the face. He stumbled back, staring shocked at a murderous looking John. His cheeks burned, not only from the blow- though that was stinging fiercely. There was something humiliating about being slapped, it was a shaming blow, not just a punishing one. He gasped as he felt tears prick in his eyes. _Fuck, he's tearing me to pieces._

Suddenly John was directly in front of him, hands resting on either side of his face pressing their foreheads together. He realized John was hissing out words, two emotions seemed to be battling inside the blonde as he stared into Sherlock's eyes. "Fuck I'm sorry, Jesus Sherlock I am _so sorry_ I swore I wouldn't- I would never- I didn't mean ta- but _damn it, Sherlock!!!_ " John pulled back, tightening his grip slightly as he glared at him. His accent become more prominent as he tried not to shout. "D'you realize how bloody dangerous tha' shit is?!" Sherlock shrugged, rolling his eyes slightly. "It's not that much of a risk John." John _snarled_ at him.

"Fuck you, you daft idiot. _Fuck. You._ I hauled that filth around London for months. I've _seen_ what it can do. I've seen it decimate people, Sherlock. I've seen people DIE!!" There were tears in Johns' eyes as he stroked a hand through Sherlock's hair. "God, and it's been frying your gorgeous brain for who knows how long..."

"I know." Sherlock murmured. "I've been using it off and on for at least-" 

" _Sherlock._ " John had a pained looked in his eyes. He was silent for a moment before suddenly asking. "Is there any in the house?"

"What?" Sherlock asked sharply. 

John leaned away, letting go of Sherlock to cross his arms. "Is. There. Any. Cocaine. In your house?"

"Why?" Sherlock's shoulders were hunched defensively.

Johns eyes narrowed. "If you want me to live here, I have to know where any and all hazardous materials are located- Sherlock don't argue with me it _is **bloody**_ dangerous." Sherlock looked down, trying to school his skeptical expression. "Is there any in the house?" John asked again, growling. Sherlock nodded. "Show me." 

Sherlock stood frozen a moment before slowly walking to the stairs. Each step was a heroic effort as he lead John up. Every instinct screamed at him to protect his stash, but if showing it to John meant John would stay, he'd do it. But he felt unbearably tense. He was distracted from his inner torment by John asking "by the way, where's your loo? I didn't see last night." Sherlock jerked his head towards the door directly to the right of the landing at the top of the stairs. "Ta."

Sherlock stared at him as John made no move toward the bathroom. John just smiled grimly, waving his hand at Sherlock to lead the way on. Sherlock sighed and went down the hall into his room. He went straight to his closet and pulled down a huge biology text book from the shelf. He turned to see John standing by his bed, hands fisted in his trouser pockets. Sherlock put the book on the edge of the bed and, sighing, flipped it open to page two hundred and twenty one. Johns' eyebrows rose as he saw the hollowed out cavity in the book. He leaned forward and gingerly picked up the hypodermic syringe nestled inside. He fingered the tip of the needle, his face strangely blank as Sherlock scrutinized him. He set it down on the bed, then picked up the little silver box. He flipped open the box and his breath hitched as he saw the mound of white powder inside.

He abruptly turned his back to Sherlock, still holding the box. His shoulders rose and fell as he sighed heavily. Sherlock watched him anxiously, imagining the look of terrible disappointment that must be on Johns' face. Yet another idol had fallen. He couldn't bear the silence. "J-ohnny?" He asked quietly, ignoring the way his throat cracked.

Johns back tensed. Then he spoke. "I - I'm sorry, Sherlock." Sherlock's insides crumbled. So, John was leaving. He knew he'd made the wrong choice.

Suddenly John bolted out of the room, the silver box still in hand. Sherlock stumbled after him, prepared to tackle John rather than let him leave the house. But John surprised him by suddenly checking left and running past the stairs to the bathroom. With horror Sherlock realized his intentions and shouted in rage. He shot after John, leaping on him just as the white powder disappeared down the toilet. 

" _DAMN YOU JOHN!!!"_ " Sherlock slammed John to the ground with a roar, and tried to punch him in the side. John countered grabbing his wrist and twisting it hard enough to make the bones creak. They flipped and squirmed on the bathroom floor, grunting and snarling as each tried to gain the upper hand. Finally John managed to get astride Sherlock's waist with both hands clenched around his pale wrists."Sherlock!" He growled as Sherlock continued to buck under him. "Damn it Sherlock would you just listen?! I know that was a shit thing to do but you'd never just let go, this was the best way!! Shit!" He recoiled as Sherlock forehead connected with his chin. Sherlock flipped them once again and landed on top of John. He braced his hands on either side of Johns head and glared down at him. He was almost crying again with rage and hurt and frustration.

"Why?!" His voice was caught between a sob and a scream. "Why would you do that to me?! _John..._ " his head dropped down. His wild black curls brushed over John's nose, his lips. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, fighting the chaotic emotions in his head. _God he hated **emotions**_

He flinched when he felt John move, but his eyes opened in surprise when he felt soft fingertips trace over his jawbone. John watched him solemnly, with regret and determination and- dare he think it? - love in his beautiful blue eyes. His fingers traced up his jawbone to just below his ear, then ghosted over his cheekbone before finally resting on his lips. Johns eyes flicked down to look at where his own fingers rested, and a flicker of heat showed in his eyes. He craned his neck up, and pressed a soft, dry kiss to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock was too shocked to reciprocate, but John didn't seem to mind. The kiss lasted almost a full minute, just the simple press of lips, comforting and and quiet. Sherlock realized he was shaking. Finally John dropped his head back onto the bath mat beneath them, and traced his jaw once more. When he spoke, His voice was just like his kiss, simple and undemanding. "Last night, you asked me to let you take care of me. I will. But that means you have to let me do the same for you."

Sherlock sucked in a rattling inhale then dropped down onto John. John gave a gasping 'oomph' but didn't complain, simply pulling Sherlock's head to rest on his shoulder. His fingers ran through Sherlock's dark curls, nails grazing gently against his scalp, murmuring sweet nothings as Sherlock shook. Eventually the shaking stopped, and he lay their breathing slow shallow breaths. "You must despise me." He whispered into Johns' neck.

"Never, Sherlock." he felt a surge of searing joy at johns words. He nipped happily at johns neck and nuzzled in close. John huffed. "If anything, I figure this makes us even. To B perfectly honest, I'm glad I'm not the only one in this relationship with issues."

Sherlock chuckled, a dull rumble in his chest that made John shiver. He propped himself up on an elbow smirking down at his beautiful, impossible boy. "Oh baby, you have no idea." John flushed at the pet name, but rolled his eyes. Sherlock grew serious, his eyes grave. " So... We're okay?" 

John smiled softly. "We're fine Sherlock, it's all fine." Sherlock grinned and stood, pulling John up with him so they were chest to chest in the small bathroom. John smiled, but suddenly his manner changed, and Sherlock was shoved back against the wall. Sherlock recognized the street soldier, the golden god he had become so enamored with that was only a piece of John's personality. This John was dangerous and beautiful, and his strong arms held Sherlock's shoulders firmly to the wall as blue eyes glared. "But if I ever catch you buying, owning, or using cocaine again, I will shove so much of that white powder up your arse you'll shit snow for a year." Sherlock flushed and the tightness he'd felt in his pants after the fight increased tenfold.

"Gee Johnny boy, I dunno if I should be scared, grossed out, or just plain turned on!"

John flushed a brick red and tried to pull away, but Sherlock yanked him back, grinning down at the red face as he wrapped his arms around the firm, trim waist. "No no, John. It's alright. I quite like being threatened by you. It's really quite _stimulating_." He rolled his thin hips with the last word, grinding happily against John's stomach, letting him feel the hardness under his trousers. John made a shocked "Eep!" noise and jerked back, but Sherlock didn't let him get far. He flipped them roughly, so that John was pinned against the wall, and proceeded to plunder his mouth thoroughly. His tongue stroked and teased Johns' less skilled one, and he relished the overwhelmed moan that he managed to pull from the shorter boy, as he rolled his hips again. One of Johns hands rested limply on his shoulder, the other twisted into the hair at the nape of his neck. Sherlock grinned at the answering hardness he felt forming in John's trousers and bit his plush lower lip, humming at John's gasping whimper. 

Suddenly Sherlock froze as he felt a familiar presence in the bathroom door. "Dear me, what's all this?" John pulled back so fast he knocked his head on the wall behind him. Sherlock shifted so he was partially blocking John from view as he turned to face his mother. "Um, good morning Mummy." 

She arched a dark eyebrow. Her eyes flicked up and down, taking in her son's disheveled appearance. "Well you certainly seem to be enjoying it." 

John choked behind him. Sherlock grinned. "Just a bit." 

His mother huffed at him and shook her head. "Cheeky." She turned on her heel and walked out of the room."Well come along you two. Come into my office, we've important business to discuss." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anybody catch the Robocop quote???? a million soul cookies to you if you did!! that's all fir now, but I'll be posting more ASAP. It's good to be back - love to all my fellow shippers! ciao babes

**Author's Note:**

> Well, if anyone read this, there will be more, and I swear I'll get better. ciao Babe!  
> P.S. Greg calls Harriet a Fuzzy Duck - this refers to a girl with short hair, something not very typical of the time, but starting to get popular.


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